BEGINNINGS
by Chimaya
Summary: U.S. Marshal Jim Crown is new to Cimarron.  In between settling in, shaping up his new Deputies, and trying to manage the likes of one Dulcey Coopersmith, a shadow from his past brings unexpected danger to them all.
1. Chapter 1

BEGINNINGS

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

I.

_I'm coming for you, Crown. I'm coming to kill you. You'll get it slow and hard, like you deserve. I'll shoot one arm, then a leg…stake you, stomp you. Beat at your bare feet, burn you, rip you open…_

"G'day, Marshal."

"Mister Reeves…" _Feed and grain owner…_

"Good day, Marshal!"

"Ma'am." _The doctor's wife…_

"A fine day, Marshal!"

"A fine day, Mrs. Greene," U.S. Marshal Jim Crown agreed, touching the brim of his black hat in greeting even as he continued his stride down the busy boardwalk. _Dressmaker, _he reminded himself, _widow – extra check on her store at night…_

"Pay for it, or put it back," he advised, slowing to address three boys filling their pockets from the display of produce in front of the General Store. He waited, hands on hips, while the reluctant lads returned the items and Mason _store owner_ came on with his broom. The trio quickly scattered and Crown waved and moved on.

"Will you be coming to the fire safety committee meeting tonight, Marshal?" asked Jack Kilgallen _Cherokee Saloon owner._

"I'll be there," Crown assured him.

It would've been easier to ride his horse down to the depot, but he had to be both real and visible to these folks. They had to know that he was the law and was here to enforce it; would enforce it by the best method possible, gunshot or fist or anything in between. The Strip, the railroad and the five towns under his jurisdiction would not be plundered, burned, or made a haven for outlaws. Neither would the Cherokee Outlet be allowed settlement – that was his responsibility, too. Cimarron City, his current headquarters, had good potential for a future. It might not be ever fully tamed, but he'd do his best with it while he was here. That's what these people needed to understand. And so, just a few weeks into his re-assignment from Abilene to Indian Territory, he was walking, meeting, greeting, listening, and doing-

"Marshal, about the settlement…"

"My office at one o'clock, Mr. Kersey," Crown confirmed. "Bring Mr. Wheelwright with you. I should be all moved in by then."

Miss Dulcey Coopersmith, the new – and young – landlady of the Wayfarer's Inn, flew by in a stream of blue stripes and blonde hair. "Who's watching the stove?" Crown called after her hurrying form.

"Just bringing something to Mr. Hanscomb!" she called back in that arresting English accent of hers. Seth Hanscomb, _livery owner_, was currently laid up with a set of broken toes from a stray hoof.

"Those Davis boys busted my window again!" declared Ezra Jacobs _mercantile._

Crown nodded but kept going. "I know."

The middle-aged Jacobs settled his considerable girth before Crown. "Well, what're you going to do about it?"

Crown pulled up to avoid bouncing off the man and jerked a thumb behind him. His new – and young – deputy Francis Wilde was herding the two misbegotten lawbreakers toward the freshly built jail now located with the walls of the Wayfarer's Inn. "Come on over and swear out a complaint anytime, Mr. Jacobs."

The portly Jacobs stared for a moment, and then grunted in accord. Crown gave him a little smile, stepped around, and started walking again.

He knew how to work a town and establish relationships with key leaders, had made Abilene successfully calm that way, and El Paso before that. The folks here in Cimarron weren't yet all that friendly, and the simmering tension between farmers and ranchers made them barely tolerable of each other. But he'd treat them the same, whether they rode a horse or walked behind it. There was Hardy the rancher and Kersey of the settlement, both needed to help keep the Strip calm. Doc Kihlgren had already offered to treat him when needed. He'd met Blynn the undertaker _furniture and funerals_ to take the inevitable bodies off his hands. There was Hayward the banker, owner of the most lucrative – and infamously attractive – business in town. Seth was the livery owner to keep his horse at the ready, and Aaron was the blacksmith to keep the big gelding foot-healthy. Harvey down at the freight office would keep him apprised of all expected federal deliveries and doings. And Major Covington of Fort Supply – well, there was one to work on.

Folks didn't have to like him, just respect what he stood for. He had a rather hard nose for obedience in certain matters, though he could be lenient in others. And where there was no law he would make one – or several. It was all about balance, and reason…

Balance, Crown thought, moving to the edge of the walk, still tipping his hat and offering a smile, a handshake, a word of greeting. He wasn't going to jail a bunch of cowboys for getting too loud or breaking a glass, maybe even a chair. Or for throwing the first punch – unless it got handed back and started stirring things up. As for those Davis boys, they'd been warned not to bust Jacobs' window again. A night or two in jail might cure them of any further temptation. That, a nice little fine, and a few lost wages to pay for the window.

He didn't otherwise charge for licenses, didn't require any "extra" fees for gaming tables. Did not accept bribes of any kind from anyone. It was just easier that way. He wore the badge, had earned the right to wear it in many ways, and would defend it until it came off, voluntarily or not. More than his share of bullets, arrows and scars had been sent his way for it, but it had also honed his cautiousness, his observational skills, his experience and his patience. It got him to age thirty-five with nary a gray hair on his dark head, or extra pounds on his tall frame. Made him good with a gun and unafraid to use it. Or his fists, if there was a need.

Crown took an easy breath as he stepped off the walk. The reconstituted sanitation committee was working well, clearing the streets twice a day, raking and watering as necessary, and filing the troughs. The fire safety committee was regularly replenishing the fire barrels, and had established a schedule for drills. Shopkeepers had been encouraged to keep their front walks swept and their back alleys clear. Delivery traffic was held to a walk under a newly developed ordinance he'd posted on his second day, to which the girl Dulcey had approved with a grateful smile. Her father had been run down by a racing beer wagon only a few weeks before she'd arrived in Cimarron, and another young lad had been hurt by a freighter before Crown's head hit the pillow that first night on duty.

Nighttime security watches had been established with he and his two deputies, Wilde and the other owner of the Inn, Angus MacGregor, rotated between the three of them. Not that young Wilde or the boisterous MacGregor appreciated it but neither had argued, especially since Crown had not quashed young Wilde's licentious writing and photographs about the "legendary Doc Crown," nor sought to pursue the Scotsman's still mysterious jail sentence. Stealing, yes, but for what Crown wasn't quite sure. But he wasn't going to waste time on it. MacGregor was able enough with a gun, strong enough with a fist, and vociferous enough when those two didn't work. As for Francis, the boy had taken better to a Winchester than a sidearm, which suited Crown fine for now. Having a green kid with an unstable gun hand as a deputy had its advantages.

Crown crossed Main Street with a comfortable stride. It was moving day. His new jail had been completed last week, his office three days ago. He'd have moved in right then but for a trip to Shades Wells and then Beaver City to meet with the new sheriffs there on various matters. He'd needed the jail rebuilt and quickly, for MacGregor's whiskey-making still had all but destroyed the support structure of the existing sheriff's office shortly after his arrival. In return, Crown had requisitioned the wine cellar at the Wayfarer's Inn for a lockup. It was Dulcey who'd suggested knocking out a wall at the Inn to enlarge the surrounding space for his office. The job was made all the easier when MacGregor caused yet another blast from his unstable still, a smaller one this time, but one that had Crown forever banning the contraption from the town proper.

The new working arrangement was…unique, to say the least. The jail occupied a lower corner of the Inn, with the cells wrapping around one edge. His office ran along behind, but there was an inner door allowing him access to the Inn's main dining room and the stairway to the rooms above. The door was of the Dutch style where he could open the top half or close the whole thing. Gibson _carpenter_ had been right happy to design something new. He also had a back door that allowed him access to the side street, and that let him jail prisoners easily. And with a room rented right upstairs he never had to leave the building if he didn't want to. Made it right easy to find a meal when he wanted, and Dulcey didn't seem to mind his wandering into the kitchen for a cup of coffee throughout the day – or evening.

Nice girl, Miss Dulcey Coopersmith, he thought to himself as he worked his way around the street traffic, completely sincere and hard-working – and naïve. How long she might stay before fleeing Cimarron was anyone's guess. Crown supposed it might only take one smashed up Saturday night inside the Wayfarer's – or a bloody shootout just beyond her door. He'd warned her how it was out here, in as plain words as he could find without being offensive. Cimarron wasn't quite tame enough for the likes of her, not yet. But he had to give her credit for her determination, even at the tender age of eighteen. She'd quickly converted the Wayfarer's from a saloon and boarding house to a restaurant and hostelry, ridding the place of any traces of indecency and replacing them with the more respectable tablecloths and flower vases. First to disappear, over MacGregor's protest, was the womanly painting erected over the bar – Crown wasn't quite sure where it'd ended up. And those upholstered sitting monstrosities had disappeared as well, but Francis reported seeing some of them over at Pony Jane's Saloon, where Crown figured they fit in nicely with the girls employed there.

Yes, Miss Dulcey had easily won over her new partner MacGregor, who treated her like a long lost niece. And Francis, when he wasn't nosing around for a story to write, kept her good company. Though the young reporter didn't seem to have much of an eye for her otherwise. That was too bad – she was easy enough on the eyes, and with her domestic talents she'd make a fine wife. She had a pretty smile that Crown found turned onto him a lot, maybe a little more than it should – or that he should allow. In spite of her youth she was a good listener, and her English lilt was nice on his ears. She made some wonderful meals, and if he wasn't riding so much he'd surely put on some weight with all that came from her kitchen.

And Dulcey was pretty…

The Inn was shaping up, Crown had to admit; he just wasn't sure how long it would stay so clean and fresh. Though he'd managed to settle Abilene, it had taken time, and a lot of heads – and chairs and windows – had been broken in the process. Faith, too. Some folks just didn't have the heart or the grit to see it through. And with settlers stacking up along the river waiting for the Outlet to open, cowboys unable to keep jobs against the canceled government leases, and the Army boys bored and hungry for action, Cimarron was a target for a lot of unrest. Not to mention the endless miles of the Outlet itself, ripe for hiding outlaws, rustlers, card cheats or any other sort of lawbreaker. When they got hungry or thirsty they'd rob off those who had provisions, make up their own dangerous brand of fun. Some knew Crown and his reputation – others didn't, and didn't care. Those were the ones he was sworn to bring in or bring down. The innocent ones were also under his protection, those like Miss Coopersmith. And with him jailing danger right inside her business space, and paying her rent on a room for his often bone-weary body, he felt a responsibility to watch over her more than most.

And she was pretty…

There was a freight wagon parked in front of the boarded up building that'd previously housed the sheriff's office. Crown had set MacGregor to work loading the remaining salvageable items from the former jail as a sort of penitence for blowing it apart. Luckily, most of the important furniture hadn't been harmed. The desk was scarred but intact, the filing cabinets off kilter but repairable. The gun rack had slipped to the floor, but was relatively unscathed. There was the matter of a new flag, however, since the blast had rendered a hole clean through the center of the fabled stripes. And a new chair for himself, one more to his liking, due in today from Kansas City.

The cots and blankets – those not shredded by the blast – had already been brought over to the cells. There'd been a few other items the former sheriff had left behind – a nice set of mounted horns that made Crown smile in remembrance of his trail days, an antlered hat rack, a map of the States. Dulcey had also offered some items from the converted dining room. Crown had chosen a few leather covered items – a long bench, a chaise, and an easy chair that comfortably fit his frame; an extra table or two for the alcove-

"Jim!"

A picture of President Lincoln bobbled out from the building doorway onto the walk, MacGregor's legs held below.

"What about this?" came Mac's voice from around the framed portrait, as if Abe himself was speaking with a Scottish burr.

"Well, what about it?" Jim asked, seeking a fresh cigar from his inner vest pocket. He dug up a match, scraped it to life on a wagon wheel, lit up and puffed contentedly. Yes, real nice day – nice – calm – day…

"Do you want it, man? It came off the wall in there."

"In more ways than one," Crown declared back with a little laugh as the man some years his senior lowered the frame to peer at him.

"You're a right funny man when you want to be, Jim Crown," MacGregor allowed with a flash of his light blue eyes, "even if you're laughing at my expense."

"You blew up the building, not me," Crown replied.

"And I'll thank you for not reminding me at every turn," Mac retorted a little peevishly. "Am I not moving your things for you? And keeping both eyes open over the night while you sleep sound in your bed?"

"Just raising your reputation in this town," Crown responded with a smile, flicking ash.

"And I suppose you'll next be telling me that toiling in the sun will make an honest man of me."

"Better than me finding out the real reason for you being jailed in the first place."

Mac could not quite cover his flinch. But he straightened quickly. "If we never speak of that again I'll be grateful."

Crown pointed to the wagon. "I need this done in an hour."

"And so it shall be, just to keep your good temper up," Mac promised with a smile. "Now, what do I do with this?" He hefted the frame again. "Stay or go?"

Crown considered. There'd been a few Presidents painted since Lincoln. Grover Cleveland had personally awarded him this appointment, Chester Arthur before that. He supposed he'd have to put an updated picture on his list of things to order, when he had the time – and money…For now, there was Lincoln. Well, if Old Abe had survived that blast, Crown supposed he could honor the man.

"I'll take it."

Mac promptly added it to the wagon, fitting into a narrow space at the side. "Oh, before I forget. Your witness will be arriving in time for the trial – Doctor Kihlgren said he could travel any time now. I spoke to the lad. The sheriff will escort him to the train."

Crown nodded, filing the information away. He'd need to secure the man a room, keep him safe in case the robber Conroy had any friends sneaking about town. The witness – he seemed like a fine young man, though something about him kept niggling Crown's brain, a feeling of familiarity that he couldn't quite grasp. He didn't know the man's name, certainly didn't know the face. But there was something-

Something caught the edge of his vision. He turned, hand sliding quickly and out of habit to the .44 strapped securely to his hip.

There she was, Miss Dulcey Coopersmith, returning from her errand, loose blonde hair trailing past her shoulders and crisp, blue striped dress adorning her slender frame. She looked like a freshly bloomed flower after a good prairie rain. Sweet and pretty, genuine – and innocent. As was his new custom whenever she was within sight, Crown scanned the area about her, looking for deviants that might be following, or gawkers leering a little too openly. She easily attracted them. If she'd only glance back now, she'd see that Jacobs the mercantile owner had stopped sweeping to watch her pass, three cowboys had repeatedly tipped their hats at her, and the newly arrived gambler had stood up from his lounge in front of the hotel to catch a look. Even Seth from had hopped up to the stable doorway to watch. Crown supposed he could forgive at least Seth; Dulcey had just been there.

He'd told her to be aware when she went out and screech like a horned devil if she was accosted but, as had been the case with her, she didn't seem to believe she could gain any sort of attention. Even as he watched her step up into the Inn, skirts sashaying, two of the three watching cowboys began to follow.

"Be right back," he told Mac, stepping away.

"Trouble?" called the Scot.

Crown eased off the loop securing his .44 to the holster. "Not yet." Just a word or two should do it – once they saw the badge they usually backed down. But he'd learned long ago not to trust the mere looks of a man.

He was right in the middle of the street when the first gunshot sprayed dirt across his boot

tips. The second wasn't far behind.

"Crown!" came the accompanying holler. "I'm going to kill you!"


	2. Chapter 2

II.

"The blackguard!" MacGregor hissed from around the wagon wheel. "Damn near took me out on that second shot, and me doing your business for you!"

"You'll have to thank Lincoln for protecting you," Crown wryly replied, noting a fresh chip in the President's frame. He scrabbled and turned, kept himself behind the cover of the trough he'd dived behind. A shot _plocked!_ into the water as he moved. _That's three,_ he noted. _Winchester…_

"Crown!" roared the voice again. "Crown, you hear me?"

"You got any firepower over there?" Crown asked MacGregor, pulling his own weapon. Just who the hell-?

"Why would I need a gun to move some furniture?" Mac fumed. "I'm not stealing it!"

"Where's the gun rack?"

"Aye, still inside!" the Scot exclaimed brightly.

Another shot skimmed over the top of the trough. Crown pressed a cheek into the dirt as splinters sprayed, barely avoided ruining his cigar. From the right, he gauged. Not elevated. _He's found himself a nice little hidey-hole…_

"_Crroowwwwnn!"_

"I'll give you some cover," Crown told Mac.

The street had gone quiet – hopefully, everyone had sense enough to stay out of the way. Crown lifted his head, fired off three quick shots, and saw MacGregor's boots scramble away. Francis had a rifle, he remembered. The shots should be enough to rouse his attention. The bullet-happy rat out there didn't seem too averse to wasting bullets.

"State your business!" he demanded to the shooter, digging furiously through his brain to match a name to that voice. He knew it from somewhere…

A shot, then another, but short of the mark this time, hitting only the dirt in front of the trough. "You killed her!" came the cry. "You – killed –her!"

He heard a scuff; found Mac crouched in the shadows of the doorway, a rifle glinting dully in either hand. Crown put out a quick hand to keep him back.

"I see him," MacGregor called softly. "In the hotel alley."

"You killed her, Crown!" came the angry shout. "You killed my Betsy! And now I'm gonna kill you!"

Betsy…oh, hell…

"Why did you have to go and kill his woman?" Mac demanded from behind him. "The poor man is beside himself with grief."

"Woman, hell!" Crown spat back, fitting it all together now. "I shot his mule!" He peered out. "Woodrow Carter!" he called. "You put down that Winchester and come to your senses."

"She was all I had, Crown. All I had! And now she's gone."

"She had a broken leg, Woodrow. She was suffering."

An unfortunate – and unnecessary – accident just three days ago. Carter had tried crossing the river into the Outlet, steering his mule-driven wagon right into a bottom hole. One animal had gone down with a break to its foreleg; the wagon had toppled with the other still harnessed. Crown had arrived too late to do more than help the man unbuckle the harnesses and free the unharmed jenny, then shot the thrashing, drowning mate out of its misery. It took an hour in the water to right the wagon and retrieve the contents, after which Crown figured the man had already paid for his crime and so hadn't brought him up on charges.

"Must've been an off day," he chided himself now, since he was generally a better judge of character. Then again, a man in his grief… "I'll tell you about it as soon as we get him jailed," he muttered to Mac. His new chief deputy hadn't heard about the incident as he'd been in Hardesty settling in the new sheriff until yesterday, and Crown figured it was long over. "Right now, you draw his attention. I'm going to circle around and come up behind him. Leave one of those Winchesters for me."

Under Mac's barrage, Crown leapt for the boardwalk and dove into the damaged office. He took the rifle with a nod of thanks, broke it open and checked – all loaded.

"Keep him busy," he ordered.

"Aye."

He raced out the back and made a right, heading to the corner of Lauck's building up the street, peeped out. Francis stood just outside the Inn's batwing doors, rifle at the ready. As Mac began firing again Crown sped across the street, ran past some frightened but curious townspeople, and reminded them to stay back. He hurried forward, keeping himself close to the storefronts, making himself as small a target as possible. At the edge of the Inn he called over to his deputy, but Francis had already seen him and was awaiting orders.

"Move down," Crown told him. "Stay close to the buildings and draw his attention while I get behind him, then follow me."

"What if I hit him?" Francis asked anxiously, worry shadowing his blue eyes and creasing his otherwise smooth features.

Crown smiled around his cigar and clapped him on the back – the boy would make a good deputy yet. "I expect he'll bleed a little if you do. Now, get shooting."

They parted. Crown ran into the Inn, swung through the dining room and into the kitchen, nearly collided with Dulcey just turning from the stove. "Marshal!" she exclaimed as he thrust her aside and grabbed for the back door. "Whatever is-?"

"Stay away from the windows," he only ordered as he heard the first of Francis' shots. Then, seeing her fearful face, he tacked on a gentler, "Please, Miss Dulcey. You'll be back to serving lunch in just a bit. All right?"

"Be careful," he heard her warn even as he was out the back door and racing to parallel Francis' movements at the front. She said it every time she saw him leave, every time she handed over the saddlebags she'd taken to packing for him. Why didn't she listen when he told her the same thing?

He heard two more shots from Francis' direction, then a yelp, then a swear, and eased into the hotel alley. Woodrow Carter's skinny frame hunkered ahead, straw colored hair sticking straight up from his bare head. He was a tall man, a good six inches bigger than Crown, and tough from field work. And now mad and upset and maybe even a little desperate. And drunk, judging from the smell coming off him. Time to finish this…

Crown moved in on a noiseless step learned long ago from the Comanches and raised his .44. "That's enough, Woodrow," he announced quietly, pushing the gun barrel hard into the other man's long neck. "You drop that Winchester now, you hear me?" The other man stiffened but did as he was told, spreading his arms and letting the rifle slip slowly to the ground. Crown grabbed the back of his frayed collar and thrust him forward. "Let's go."

"Crown," Carter began darkly, moving slowly. He straightened, weaved. There was a bloody rip across one bony, stubbled cheek. "I'm gonna…"

"I'll tell you what you're gonna do, Woodrow," Crown said, cutting him off. "You're gonna sleep it off and then you're gonna sit in my jail until the circuit judge comes by next week. If you're lucky you won't lose the mule you have left. If you do, then it might be time to move on elsewhere."

"My wife –my family…"

"I'm sorry, Woodrow. We'll let them know. Good job," Crown said to Francis as his deputy pulled up.

"And what about me?" MacGregor demanded with a pant, approaching.

"You've got a job to finish," Crown reminded him. "And there's a crate at the depot, too."

The Scotsman drew himself up with disdain, as if the moving job had sudden distaste. "Fine, but if you don't mind I'll just hang onto this gun. That way I'll be at the ready in case trouble starts following you again, Jim Crown."

The cells were going to be nearly full. He already had some petty thieving outlaw named Bowden locked up, that bigger rat Conroy that was surely on his way to the Territorial Prison directly after his trial, the two Davis boys, and now Carter. But it was far better than that barbed wire round pen he'd had to temporarily erect for the purpose. No one had appreciated that, lawbreaker or lawman. The nights had been too cold and the days too warm, and they'd had to guard round the clock and eat dust all the while.

They took the prisoner in through his bare but clean office and locked him up with the others. Crown grabbed some papers off the leather chair that was temporarily serving as his desk and stepped up to his connecting door. If he took a table near the stairs he might be able to complete some paperwork until Mac arrived with the furniture...

Dulcey swept by with a coffeepot in her hand, the aroma tantalizing; she made one helluva good cup. "If you could bring me some?" he asked her, unlatching the lower half of his door to step out.

"Are you all right?" she asked in a rush, turning and coming back up to him, concern pursing her lips and creasing her forehead under the wispy blonde bangs grazing her slim brows.

He nodded, shrugged. "Just some flying lead," he reported with lazy amusement, trying to divert her freshened attention onto him.

"I was so worried-" She broke off and pinked up nicely.

"You'd better get used to the fuss," he advised in a tone he knew she didn't like. "This town is a long way from being settled." Being gruff was the only way he knew how to put her off – because he did care about her. Sure enough, she was starting to fluster. Well, she had to understand what it was like out here; flowers and tablecloths couldn't cover it up.

"Maybe it was me she was worried about," Francis teased but gave Crown a look saying he knew full well otherwise. Crown scowled back. If Francis had come up out of his camera long enough to notice Dulcey's infatuation, then surely others had, too. He'd have to do something about that.

But right now Dulcey's blue eyes were flashing with cold fire. "There are a good many people to worry over," she told them scathingly. "Don't single yourselves out. I'll bring you your coffee in a moment."

"Thank you, Miss Dulcey," Crown nodded. His gaze followed her as she went to serve a couple seated at a far table, then he let it drift across the room. She had a good crowd today. It would bolster her confidence into staying – he wasn't quite sure if that made him glad or not. "You get to the settlement and find Woodrow's family and tell them he's jailed," he directed Francis. "They can come see him if they want. But he stays put until Judge Quayle comes in next week."

He headed to a far table, dropped his hat on it, and made to sit down. Then he saw them – the two cowboys who'd followed Dulcey into the place, the ones he was intending to have a word with. They were at the bar but had turned enough to allow themselves plenty of looks at her. Crown gave a sigh of consternation and ambled that way.

Febrizio the bartender gave him a nod and a questioning look, but Crown only shook his head no. He didn't need any liquor, or the shotgun stashed under the bar top in case of trouble. At least not yet.

"Saw you two boys before the fracas started," he drawled to the twin backs facing him.

They turned. "Got a right to be in town," the older of the two said, and he was still a cub, younger than Francis even, with sandy hair and light eyes – and a hand that had already traveled south toward his Colt.

"Sure you do," Crown agreed with a nod, then eyed the other, dark-haired one. "Unless or until you break a law."

"Who says we're fixing to do that?" the second one asked. He straightened but had enough sense to keep his hands on his hips.

Crown followed their flicking gazes to where Dulcey was moving with her youthful grace among the tables, chatting and pouring coffee. "We're respectful here at the Wayfarer's," he told them. "We say 'please' and 'thank you.'" He stubbed out the last of his cigar. "And we don't stare impolitely."

"Just watching folks, is all," shrugged the first one.

"I suggest you do your watching someplace else then," he advised. Then he nodded in Dulcey's direction. "She's not interested."

"And how would you know?"

In a quick motion Crown stepped in and grabbed the kid's hovering right hand. "I may be older, but I guarantee I'm faster," he told him in a low voice.

The younger man resisted only lightly. "You got some kind of claim on her, mister?" At Crown's hard stare and even harder grip he dropped his gaze and eased his hand. "Marshal, sir," he amended.

"That's better." Crown let go and stepped back. "If you want to talk to Miss Coopersmith then why don't you sit down and order up some lunch? I'm sure she'd be glad for your paying business. If you're only going to buy beer then you'd better turn around and concentrate on the fine picture we've got hanging on the wall over here."

"Come on, Tom," the younger one piped up to his friend. "Let's go someplace else. Sorry, Marshal," he nodded. "We didn't mean to make no trouble."

The older one brought his gaze back up, faint challenge held in the green eyes. But it withered under Crown's unblinking stare. "Sorry," he muttered and turned to leave.

"And no hanging around the back door," Crown reminded them as they silently slunk away.

Dulcey was pretty, he told himself again as he made his way back to his table. And way too innocent for the likes of Cimarron. And no, he had no claim on her. But he paid her two kinds of rent, ate her food, and accepted her clothes washing and room cleaning services. That gave him more than just a passing interest in her well-being. They were friends…sort of. As much as he could be friends with anyone – the badge held off most folks. And it wasn't good to get too close to anyone – more often than not, it wound up hurting them.

And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Miss Dulcey.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

_You'll never realize 'til it's too late, Crown. Just before you breathe your last I'll tell you why I caused your dying. I'll slice the skin off you, let your blood run out, break all your bones…I'll get you, Crown. I'll get you…_

"Marshal Crown…sir!"

Good, now at least she had his attention. Still, Dulcey Coopersmith couldn't help but wilt a little under the appraising stare of hazel eyes now affixed onto her from beneath those heavy, dark brows. Crown's firm lips were set in a line – it was, she knew, the first element of his ire. Next his face would darken, his eyes would glitter ominously and he'd utter something so scathing…

She knew he'd worked hard to prepare for the court. He'd been writing endless papers, visiting victims and witnesses, rounding up necessary jury members. She'd even come upon him one evening late last week arranging tables and chairs just so, pacing off the space and muttering about the lack of a flag. Everyone had taken notice – this was going to be an important day.

She'd thought of letting it go, maybe just this one time. But the circuit court was going to be a regular occurrence, and to let him take over…Not that she wanted to cross him. She'd witnessed his wrath, had been personally subjected to it upon occasion, and Marshal Crown frightened her when he was mad. But she also had to stand up for herself. Reason, Dulcey told herself, squaring her shoulders before the taller man with the winking silver badge and glittering silver hatband. He'd listen to reason – he was a reasonable man…

"I have some – misgivings…" she began and his heavy brows lifted at the word "…about using the Wayfarer's as a courtroom. It will affect business and profits, and we've only been open a few weeks. To reserve a day-"

"Only the morning," Crown smoothly interrupted. "I hear the judge likes to be done by noon."

"Yes, well, be that as it may…" She took a breath, but then willed herself to continue. He was reasonable, she reminded herself. He was a U.S. Marshal, a man of authority and judgment. This was business, and he well understood business. "You've ordered me closed up until that time," Dulcey reminded him, then added, "I can't even serve breakfast."

And instantly regretted saying it, for his hands went to his hips, the right sliding toward the bone handle of his ever-present .44; the ready glitter came into his eyes. "One half of this building is officially leased to you as government space, Miss Coopersmith," he said in an unusually clipped tone. "One day every month for federal business won't hurt yours."

There it was; his stubborn had dropped right into place. Now there would be no budging him. Crown indeed; he wore his authority like a king sometimes. Dictating this and that, expecting others to obey like little children. Including her in that category, even though she was well heading to nineteen. Dulcey took a breath but pressed, straining to keep the notion of reason within mind. "Up until now they've been using the church-"

"Religion and the law don't keep company all that well, Miss Dulcey," he said in that reclaimed drawl of his. "It's safer for everyone if my prisoners stay under the same roof for incarceration and trial. So when the judge comes, the Inn stays closed for the court." He gave her one of his squints, followed by a righteous nod. "My jail, my rules."

"But, but…" she began to sputter. The arrogance of the man! It might be his jail but it was her restaurant – her very building! "You can't-"

He stepped in but she stood firm, even though he was taller – and dark and imposing. His jaw worked; he jutted that cleft chin of his, and then the rest of him bristled. _Here it comes… _"Miss Dulcey," he whipped out, his drawl all but re-swallowed, "I'll gladly give you the address and you can write Washington with your complaint. But tomorrow morning, the Inn stays closed!" And with that said, he stalked directly to his office.

Dulcey closed her eyes – _slam!_ went his office door. Newly installed, she thought, and he'll have it off its hinges in no time. She let off an angry sound, stopped short of stamping her foot; so much for reason – it'd been all one-sided…his side.

"He is impossible!" she thundered to Francis Wilde.

The young man only smiled. "Guess that's how he got so good at his job," he commented, adjusting the placement of his boxy camera one more time. "Doc" Crown's first day in Cimarron City court was tomorrow and he was going to capture it. He reached down and chalked the position of the tripod.

"I don't suppose you'd talk to him?" Dulcey asked him hopefully. He didn't reply. "Francis, would you?" she asked sweetly, trying to draw his attention away from that infernal camera.

"Me?" He looked up and shook his head. She read his face – he had no desire to cross Crown. He then gestured. "Get Mac – this place belongs to him, too."

MacGregor wouldn't intervene; he was already too loyal to the lawman. Dulcey sighed and stepped away, let her gaze travel to Crown's office door. If he just wouldn't shout so much. It was more than shouting – he bellowed. He strode, he threatened, he fought, he slammed doors. He was hard-headed, hard-nosed, rigid minded. He ate hearty enough, though where it all went she couldn't tell – there wasn't anything but toughness and muscle on him. Then again, he didn't seem to sit still. He was always riding out – through the Strip, into the Outlet, down to the settlement, across the river and back. He'd been everywhere, she'd heard. To the army fort, the Indian camps, the ranches, and each of the five towns in his district. Making his presence known, directing, instructing and commanding attention. No, _demanding_ attention…

It didn't help that he was an attractive man. Surely she was not the only one who had noticed his handsome face of defined lips, those arresting eyes held by those curled black lashes, and that prominent cleft in his chin. That thick, dark hair that curled over his collar. The white teeth. His broad chest, muscled forearms, narrow hips and long legs. His nimbleness in and out of the saddle. Completely confident in the way he carried himself, what with that long barreled gun strapped to his thigh, the way that silver hat band caught the light, the way his badge glittered with authority. He carried all his responsibility on his very person, from the top of his dark head to the tips of his black boots.

And he'd taken over more than just his rented space. He now required a shotgun under the bar, a bolt on both the front and back doors. To his credit he did not parade prisoners through the dining room. He made sure he or MacGregor or Francis was present when she served the prisoners a meal. And he didn't run in every lawbreaker, either; he let some things slide, worked with a measure of common sense. Not that he was trying to ease his way into the town's favor – he'd set some hard and fast rules that had some folks quickly chafing. But he could be reasonable – when he wanted to. When that measure of reason didn't cross his sense of duty. Which apparently the court location did. And yet…

He was freshly washed and shaved each day, came to the supper table with clean hands and a clean shirt. Didn't appear to have too many vices – an occasional taste for liquor, an affinity for a cigar. There was a respectfulness he eased into his drawl when he was amused or polite. His "Thank you, Miss Dulcey" always warmed her, despite his other rebukes and refusals. What was so frustrating was the way he took on some things, the way he would plant his heels and squint down at her in that haughty manner. Then there was no sneaking past that badge to the man underneath.

Yet he seemed a fast friend to MacGregor, though she supposed that was because they were closer in age; the Scotsman was just some years beyond Crown's thirty-five. And Mac seemed able enough. Crown had also taken a liking to Francis, bringing him along like a kid brother. He relied on them both – they were the only ones that'd been at his side from the first. She knew he also depended on Mr. Hanscomb at the livery, and the blacksmith, and that he had talked to Mr. Blynn the undertaker. And he'd visited Pony Jane's, taken a liking to a dark-haired, foreign girl over there – there'd been quick gossip about that.

As for herself…

She knew he watched out for her. There wasn't a day when he didn't warn her to be careful, to recognize dirt as dirt, blood as blood – death as death. She understood that his caustic words reflected an element of care for her. Though they often seemed too dramatic – and amusingly colloquial. There'd hardly been an incident since he'd taken charge and stopped Payne's farming contingent from crossing the river.

"Francis!"

The object of her musing was now standing behind the lower half of his fancy door, thumping the top edge to gain the younger man's attention.

Francis pulled his head out from under the black hood of his camera, brushed his brown hair back into place. "Yes, Marshal?"

"You get on down to the freight office and check on the eleven-oh-five train. I'm expecting a delivery. If it came in you bring it straight here."

Dulcey quickly stepped forward – another opportunity to perhaps change his mind, especially if he was distracted… "Marshal…"

"I'm heading down to the settlement – you're in charge," he continued right over her to Francis and turned away. His back door slammed appreciably and he was gone.

Francis picked up his camera, folded the legs of the tripod. "If I see Mac I'll ask him to talk to the Marshal for you," he offered.

Oh, don't bother," Dulcey replied, sighing again. "It would be like talking to a chair."

Francis smiled a little apologetically at her, hoisted his camera to his shoulder and moved away.

Well, now that the Marshal was out, she should get into his office and hang his curtains. They'd been ironed for two days but every time she asked to put them up he'd refused, said he liked his place just as he'd decorated. But one etched window and window two shades hardly qualified as completed decor. Besides, the curtains matched the shade color exactly, and were intended as a set.

While there, she could sweep – it would only take a few extra minutes. How would it seem to others to engage in discussion in the Marshal's new office with dried mud and sand all over the floor? And she would stay well clear of the cell area. Truth be told, she didn't want to go near that section anyway, what with it so full of those angry men. Lawbreakers, Crown reminded her, and not trustworthy.

She quickly retrieved the curtains, swept over to his door, then backed up to a nearby dining table, took up a flower vase…

And stopped. He would be angry with her. Dulcey peered into the office, at the bare window and the dirt-streaked floor, and felt a stream of her own stubborn tunnel through her. Marshal Crown might have control of the entire Cimarron Strip, the five towns within, the settlements, even the railroad, but he only paid rent here. With a measure of triumphant defiance she juggled the items to one hand, unlatched the lower door and stepped inside.

The scents of newly sawn wood, varnish and polish greeted her. It definitely had the mark of a man's taste, his taste, but one could hardly call it over-decorated. There was the rather scarred desk, but a new black leather chair sat proudly behind it. On impulse Dulcey touched it; it quivered easily under her touch. On casters, she noted, then pulled it out, turned it – it swiveled. If not for the curtains draped over her arm would have sat in it.

The desktop was curiously neat – she peeked into the canister on one corner – his cigars. Other than that there was an oil lamp and a wire basket already full of papers, wanted posters mostly. She shivered at the drawing of the outlaw's face staring back at her. Such a mean looking man – would he ever be jailed here? She deposited the flower vase on the other corner and glanced away, noted the leather bench from what was now the dining room, and the fat easy chair that had been formerly parked under the stairway, a couple of other straight chairs for sitting, a few filing cabinets. A map of the States hung on one wall, a picture of President Lincoln on the other. Dulcey peered closely – there was a gouge in the frame. Obviously not well tended, and why this President? He'd been dead twenty years already! Why wasn't there a picture of President Cleveland instead? She'd have to ask him…

There was a pair of steer horns nailed over the map, a rather crude hat rack made of antlers affixed to a diamond shaped frame, and a gun rack near the back door; this was filled with long guns and secured by a chain and lock. She turned, headed back to the desk, noted that he'd filled the alcove before the cells with the roll top desk that had been shoved into one corner of her kitchen, and some more scarred filing cabinets. A peg high on the wall held a large round ring of new cell keys. Well, it appeared he needed some things, at the least a towel or two, a ewer and a wash basin, a tray for his cigars – the man was likely going to spend a lot of time in here. Francis certainly had made enough photographs – a few in here might be nice on the walls, too.

Better get working – he could be back at any time. Dulcey draped the curtains over the back of the shiny chair, fetched her broom and the dustpan – first things first.


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

Dulcey stepped up on one of the wooden chairs and retrieved the rod Mr. Gibson the carpenter had put up for her. It only took a moment to fit the curtains to the window. Yes, much better, it cut the glare of the afternoon sun, matched nicely with the etched design in the glass. Didn't mar the appearance of the room at all. And Marshal Crown did not own this window. Emboldened, she moved over to other window and hung the next curtain, humming a little tune. The quietude was nice, she decided. No Francis rushing about, no MacGregor shouting with excitement. No Marshal bellowing. Her evening meal was ready to be cooked, the desserts were prepared, the dishes long since washed and dried. If every day went like this then perhaps she could cut a new dress pattern and begin sewing again. She took up the rod from the next window, slid the curtain into place—

"Hey, I wouldn't go in there, Mister!"

"This is the Marshal's office, isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Well, I've got business with the Marshal."

The voices came from outside the door – Dulcey peered out the window but couldn't see anyone. They must be farther down the alley on the corner, near her kitchen door. _You tell me if anyone's loitering out there,_ Crown had told her. _And lock it for now…_

"Rules, always rules," she grumbled to herself.

"He ain't in," she heard the first voice say.

"How do you know?"

"She's in there – the girl. Alone. I wouldn't go in with him not there. Threatened Tom and me last week over her – all but drew down on us."

Dulcey pulled back. What was the man saying? Marshal Crown threatened some men last week – over her? She hadn't known of any men asking after her. Come to think of it, no one asked after her but perhaps some shopkeepers, and even then they were distantly polite. Suspicion worked through her. Just what was the Marshal up to by keeping folks away from her like she was some plague? And how dare he threaten them with his gun! The presumption of the man! Thinking he could just speak for her! He was neither her parent nor her guardian. He had no right – no right! No wonder folks barely spoke to her. All it'd taken were words from the mighty Marshal Crown and they all had backed away.

First taking over the Inn and now this. Well, she would not stand for it!

She whirled, grabbed up the last set of curtains and stormed toward the connecting door. She would not do anything else for him, nothing—

The back door rattled open – he was coming back. Dulcey turned, words of venom already on her lips. "Marshal Crown! If you think you can-!"

It wasn't Crown.

Instead there stood a tall, sandy-haired young man with his hat in his large hand, a set of saddlebags over one shoulder, and a sheepish look on his face. A tall and handsome young man with green eyes and clean cheeks, a few years older than she. Much younger than the Marshal, certainly…

"Oh, oh – I – I-" She felt her face burn fast with embarrassment. "I'm so very sorry. I thought you were the Marshal…"

He stepped forward, just one step, bobbed his head politely. He was slender, a little pale. He wore no gun – she relaxed a little. Had he limped? "I'm looking for him," he said in a strong, even voice. "I gather he's not here?"

"Um, no –he's not…" Crown's reminder bounced back through her about not talking to strangers, especially men. And then Dulcey thought of the conversation she'd just heard, and she straightened. "I can tell him you called, Mr.…?"

"Matthew Hastings, Miss." He extended his hand to her. She shook it firmly, liked it when his grip held just a trifle too long. "Will he be back soon?"

"I really don't know. I can tell him that you're looking for him if you want. Or you could leave a note on his desk I suppose. Or both." She was chattering too much, she realized. A sign of nervousness. That happy sort of nervousness when a fellow got too close, turned some attentive eyes on her. Something that hadn't happened to her since her arrival here. Come to think of it, no one had really spoken to her on the train either, once the Marshal had come aboard. Had he chased them off even then…? Oh, she would have such words for him!

Matthew Hastings gestured. "Looks like you were hanging those – can I help, Miss…?" He limped forward, held out his hand.

She smiled at his politeness. She was safe. The connecting door was open with Febrizio just outside, and Francis would surely be returning soon from the depot. "Dulcey Coopersmith," she introduced, almost curtseying and wondering why she felt so breathless. He was no employer, no outlaw, just a polite young man looking for the Marshal. Why, he had no devious look whatsoever in his eye. She handed the curtain to him; his fingers grazed hers, made them tingle. "Are you new in town?" she asked him.

He put his saddlebags down, hung his hat on the diamond-shaped rack and nodded. "Just got in on the train from Hardesty." He turned to hang the curtain in the alcove doorway she indicated, easily reaching the rod. "You work here?"

"Yes…well, I own it," she admitted, then pointed. "The Inn, I mean. The Marshal rents this space."

"You own all that?" He made an approving sound. "Mighty lucky to have it, Miss Coopersmith."

"Well, I inherited it, really. And I do have a partner."

"Looks like a fine place." He peered out Crown's door, whistled low. "Mighty fine! Looks like there'd be a real good meal served here."

"I – I do the cooking, too," she told him a trifle shyly.

His smile went wide. "I bet it's the best in town! Looks like I'll have to try some – what's for supper?"

She laughed a little – it was so nice talking to someone close to her age, and without the Marshal squinting and frowning at her. "Chicken and dumplings, carrots…bread," she found herself saying to him. "I've made some tarts for dessert."

"I'm hungry right now," he declared and she gave a little laugh. He held out his hand for the other curtain and she gave it to him – he hung it quickly, and then stood back while she shook them out.

"Will you be staying long in Cimarron City, Mr. Hastings?" she asked.

He settled back on his heels. "Couple days, I guess. I'm a witness for the trial tomorrow. Met up with that fellow Conroy holding one of the money bags he stole out of the freight office. Took a bullet in the leg for my trouble. Told the Marshal I'd be ready to testify though."

"How very brave of you! And you shouldn't have helped me wounded so!" Dulcey admonished.

He shrugged. "It's healing. And it was my pleasure to help." He smiled again, such a nice and easy smile. "I figure it's my duty to tell what I saw." He pointed to the alcove. "That's where the cells are?"

She glanced back to the door barring their view. "Yes. That man Conroy is there. The trial will be held here tomorrow." Here in the Inn, and Mr. Matthew Hastings would be here, as a witness…

Hastings nodded. "Well, I'll wait outside." He reached back, retrieved his hat, then picked up his saddlebags.

"You could wait – at the bar," Dulcey suggested. "I'm sure the Marshal won't be too much longer…"

He shook his head. "I'm not much of a drinking man. But if there's a chair out front I can sit out there – enjoy the sun."

"Come this way, then," she invited with a smile. Such a polite man – and he didn't drink. Perfectly respectable. "If you're hungry I can get you something-"

The door behind them banged; Dulcey jumped and turned-

"Can I help you?" barked Crown, standing there with his hands on his hips and more than a fair share of dust on his person. Then he nodded with recognition. "Mr. Hastings, glad you could make it to town," he amended in an easier tone. "You feeling better?"

"Yes, sir," the younger man promptly replied, his face calm and still pleasant. "All ready for tomorrow."

"Fine, we'll put you up here overnight, give you a meal or two for your trouble. You'll see to it?" he asked Dulcey.

Expectations – but it did make sense. And Crown, as an agent for the government, would pay for the services. "Of course," Dulcey nodded. She glanced back over to Matthew Hastings, caught him smiling a little at her. Perhaps they would have some more time together. He didn't know anyone, and he didn't drink. It would be nice to enjoy a gentleman's company…

"We'll need to go over your statement one more time," the Marshal was saying. He paused, glanced about the room; his lips went into that frown of his. "Just give me a few minutes to finish up some things and we can do just that." Dulcey saw his gaze turn onto her, lock fast. "Miss Coopersmith, a word or two with you first?"

"I'll be outside," young Hastings murmured and slipped through the connecting door.

"I was just leaving," Dulcey told Crown. "I'll get Mr. Hastings settled." That he could so easily dismiss the younger man right in front of her, barge in and take over. If he thought he was going to just take her to task right here and now…

"Now you just hold on," Crown instructed. He took a step, got between her and the door.

Her chin lifted. "Yes?"

"I see you've been re-decorating," he replied, eyeing the room again.

"Just a few window coverings," she stiffly explained, now ruing her insistence of them. "You need your privacy." She would not remove them – let him do it if he was so against them.

"That's what shades are for," he grumbled, beginning to stroll about the room. "And what about these?" He grabbed a fistful of fabric hanging before the alcove leading to the cells.

"I did just iron them," she returned coldly. He made a face but let go. "Privacy," she repeated in a calmer tone. "Something to separate you from your prisoners."

"Got a door for that," he grunted. Then he straightened, strode to his desk. He picked up the flower vase she'd installed there; the bloom shivered in his grasp. His lips thinned as he handed it to her. "No."

She took it with a simple nod, but the anger over what he'd done – chasing good people away – was simmering within her.

"Nothing else," he told her.

She nodded again. "All right."

His hands went back to his hips; he leaned in toward her. "I mean it, Miss Dulcey."

She did not back up. "I understand, Marshal Crown."

"This is my office," he explained, as if she were an imbecile. "If the door's open you can come in. If even half of it's closed then you knock."

"Yes, of course, Marshal."

His stare suddenly bored into her and she felt his mind working furiously. He made a noise of consternation, but she kept her tongue behind her teeth. Then he pulled back a little and squinted. "Just what is making you buzz like a slapped hornet?"

Unleashed, Dulcey stepped up to him, close, too close, saw her reflection in his badge. "Just this," she hissed at him. "I'll thank you to not – not – _insinuate_ yourself into my personal affairs!"

His returned smile was just a touch too smug. "And what 'affairs' would those be, Miss Dulcey?"

She hoped the glare in her eyes was cold enough. "Do not," she began in clipped tones, resisting the urge to stab her finger into that broad chest before her. "Do not fancy yourself a judge of my customers – or my friends!"

"Someone's been flapping a jaw," he commented in his drawl, folding his arms.

"You may pay rent, but you do not have any other obligation to me," Dulcey told him.

"As a lawman I have an obligation to keep you safe," he quickly rejoined. "Same as any other citizen in this town."

"I can judge that for myself!"

"Begging your pardon, but it doesn't always work that way, Miss Dulcey…"

"I'll decide whom I wish to speak to," she cut him off. "And if I refuse and there's trouble, then you can step in. In fact, I'll welcome your assistance. But not before!"

She was so angry she was shaking. She whirled, felt her skirts slap his knee, grabbed them back. She walked rapidly away, made for the kitchen. She was running by the time she was halfway across the floor, but saw that Mr. Matthew Hastings had taken a chair not far from Crown's office. He'd heard the whole exchange, then. Tears rose, fast and hot, up behind her eyes. It was too late to salvage any sort of further conversation with him – the Marshal would chase him off, like he'd chased off every other person that had looked her way.

She reached the kitchen, barreled through, threw open the back door, scattered two men lounging there. They scampered quickly around the corner out of sight. She stopped there on the stoop, breathing hard, wiping furiously at the dampness on her cheeks. Curse that Marshal! Curse him! Playing parent to her, trying to lord over her in a space that wasn't even his! He wasn't her employer, and yet he acted like he held some ownership of her. She'd thought him as a kind of friend, could forgive him most of his admonishments, but this…

For the first time since she'd arrived in Cimarron loneliness stung her, swift and hard. "Oh, Papa," she softly cried, sinking back against the doorframe. "Why aren't you here – to help? Why did you have to die?"


	5. Chapter 5

V.

_You won't know, Crown. Not until I tell you. Just before I rip out an eye, lay your ribs bare – open your brain. You'll beg – I'll make you. You'll pay for what you did…_

"Crown!" came the holler again. "Crown, you listen to me! I'm innocent. I never shot that boy – he's lying. Wasn't me, Crown. It wasn't me! Crown, you hear me?"

Hastings watched as Crown stepped up to the cell and the man pacing within. "I hear you," the Marshal growled to the prisoner. "The whole damned street hears you. Tell it to the jury in the morning."

Sid Conroy glowered from around the lawman, his dark eyes snapping in his round, bearded face. Hastings met the hard glare. Conroy pointed through the cell bars to him. "You rattle that witness and see what shakes out of his pockets."

"You robbed that safe," stated Crown. "There were witnesses."

"I didn't, I tell you! It wasn't me! He's lying!"

Crown made a sound of frustration and turned away, much to Conroy's distress. The howls of protest echoed across the empty dining room. Crown approached Hastings. "You'd be better off not hearing this – he's trying nothing more than to intimidate you."

"Sounds like a man afraid for his life," Matthew commented.

"He should've thought of that before he robbed that safe." Crown's glittering eyes bored into him. "You all set for tomorrow? We can go over things once again if you want."

Hastings waved a hand in polite dismissal. "Thanks, Marshal, but I'm all ready. I'll probably just turn in."

"Suit yourself." Crown nodded and made his way to his office. Hastings turned toward the stairs and the rented rooms above, but waited to let the boy reporter hurry down, camera in tow. The Scotsman had already sidled out the door, likely looking for a drink or two elsewhere. And the girl Dulcey hadn't reappeared from the kitchen.

Miss Dulcey Coopersmith. She certainly was pretty. He'd tried talking to her earlier, but she'd seemed upset. And the Marshal had been giving him a hard eye all the while, so he'd made his way to a chair outside and let the time pass until the evening meal was served. Even then, the Marshal stood at the bar and surveyed the whole room from around a cigar he smoked. Now the place had quieted and the bar was closed in anticipation of tomorrow's court. The girl had hustled back and forth, clearing tables, stacking dirty dishes onto trays, taking loads into the kitchen and returning for more. But she hadn't come back.

Might be a good chance to speak to her. Crown had kept an eye on her throughout the evening, but was now buried in papers at his desk. Crown and the girl – Hastings wondered about that again. Maybe the big lawman had some designs on her. Though they'd had a plenty heated enough argument earlier. She'd ignored him a lot after that and he'd kept his distance, watching like a worried father over a wayward daughter. Well, she was pretty, the prettiest he'd seen in these parts. Pretty enough to try and catch some time alone with her. Decision made, Hastings picked up the last tray of dirty dishes left on a nearby table and carefully made his way to the kitchen.

She was there, up to her elbows in sudsy water, her pretty figure bent just slightly, her silky blonde hair falling over her shoulders. "Didn't want you to forget these," Matthew smiled in greeting.

She whirled, but already a smile was in place for him. "Mr. Hastings, why thank you! Just set them there. Please sit down, your leg…"

"It doesn't pain much," he shrugged. Actually, he rather liked the pain because it made him remember the excitement of that day. And he liked watching Dulcey, too, all slender arms and hands, all soft and pretty. And young… "You sure got busy earlier," he began. "This place is popular."

She nodded, then turned back to her dish washing. "I'm sorry about this afternoon," she said in a sorrowful voice. "The Marshal has some rather strict ideas…"

"Guess he wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't," he allowed.

"Yes, I do suppose."

He settled back, watched her for a few moments more. "Where you from originally, Miss? If I might ask…?"

Her smile came back. "New England – Providence," she told him.

"Now, that's no New England accent," he declared. "Doctor Kihlgren, the one who came and treated me, he's got the right accent, but you…"

"I was born in England," she said in a shy way.

"Ah, so that's it. That's a long ways away."

She nodded, let out a breath, her features struggling a little. "What about you?" she prompted, dipping a plate into the rinse bucket.

"Texas, originally."

"Have you family there still?"

"Only had a brother," he offered. "He died…"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, turning around to face him. "Accident?"

"I guess you could say that." Bitterness slipped into his voice before he could pull it back. "Got shot."

She made a sound. "That does happen so much…"

He settled his tone, concentrated on her pretty face. "Yes, Miss, you are surely right about that. That's why outlaws like that Conroy fellow need to be stopped."

She put another dish up to dry and turned to face him. "You are so very brave, Mr. Hastings. To stand up to a man like that. What will you do when the trial is over?"

He shrugged, let his gaze travel lightly over her, but did not let it linger too long. He couldn't move too fast with her, didn't want to scare her off. "Not exactly sure. Once my leg heals I'll need to find work."

"What is it you do?" she asked politely.

"Oh, carpentry mostly. I'm a fair hand with nails and a hammer." _Among other things._ "You think Cimarron can use another carpenter?"

"Well," she began, pursing her lips in a pretty way, "Mr. Gibson is very busy, and new buildings are going up all the time. There's the old sheriff's office, for instance – it needs fixing up."

Old sheriff's office – he'd seen it on his way in, all fallen brick, splintered wood and boarded windows. "What happened to it?" he asked.

Dulcey laughed a little. "An accident rendered it unusable."

"Who owns it?"

"I'm not sure. The Marshal got someone to board it up, and there it sits."

_Empty and unused, but if it's stable…and right in the middle of Crown's town…_

"Think the Marshal would mind if I talked to him about it?"

"It's his business," Dulcey replied coolly. "Though I'm sure whoever owns it would be happy to have it fixed up. The location is a good one – it'd be good for new business."

_Or old, unfinished business…_

"You been out here long?" Matthew asked her, switching subjects. "Cimarron, I mean?"

"No," she quietly replied. "Not long."

"Your partner Mr. MacGregor seems like a nice man." And ineffective – Crown certainly didn't know how to pick his deputies.

She nodded. "He means well."

"And Francis – Mister Wilde…" _No doubt better with a pencil than a gun._

"He has a good heart."

"It's good of them to take care – watch out for you."

"They don't-"

"I heard the Marshal tell them-"

She drew herself up. "If you please," she said in a tone edged with sharpness. "The Marshal does not speak on my behalf."

He nodded quickly, kept his smile inside. "Sorry. I didn't mean any offense."

"It's all right," Dulcey returned with apology. "Just a – common misunderstanding." She dried her hands. "Excuse me…" she murmured and headed back out to the dining room.

"He's a hard man, the Marshal," he began, limping behind her.

"Yes, well," She glanced over to Crown's office – the lawman was now standing by his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand, reading the top one. "He is very committed."

_Better leave enough alone with that. For now_… "Will you be at the trial tomorrow?" he asked her, watching as she began shaking out tablecloths and folding them up.

"I don't think so," Dulcey answered slowly.

Crown stepped out into the room. "All set in here for me to set up for the court?" he asked her.

Her features stiffened, as if he'd said a bad thing to her. "Yes, fine. I'm all through."

He nodded. "Thank you then, Miss Dulcey."

"You're welcome, Marshal Crown," she answered frostily.

That brought him up a little. He settled a look onto her, opened his mouth as if to say something, but turned away and reached for a chair. "Mac!" he called. "A little help with this."

"Oh, I saw him go out, sir," Hastings told him. He limped forward. "I can…"

"No, thank you, I couldn't ask it. Francis!" he called to the reporter fussing with a camera he'd set up on the other side of the room.

"Must you always shout?" Dulcey asked him in a cold tone.

He ignored her. "Get a broom," he told Francis. "And start sweeping."

Hastings heard her mutter something sarcastic about him liking dirt, but she continued her folding. Crown began to move chairs about, while young Wilde began to sweep hard and fast. Dulcey's gaze kept going to the Marshal, as if she wanted to come out and say something to him, but she didn't. Finally she thumped the last tablecloth onto the top of the pile she had made. "I'm tired – I think I'll turn in," she announced.

"I can walk you up," Matthew offered and slid a covert glance over to Crown. Sure enough, the lawman had stiffened and half-turned back. Might indeed be something there, he cautioned himself, but then that thought gave him a little pleasure. Crown was jealous, yet wasn't showing any obvious claim on the girl. _Fair play, then. _

Dulcey had seen it, too, and her demeanor suddenly changed. "Why thank you, Mr. Hastings," she answered with a clear smile. "I would appreciate that."

He went so far as to offer her his arm, which she gladly took. Her touch was secure, unafraid. They made their way up the stairs in companionable silence, the Marshal's eyes boring into their backs all the way. Hastings didn't dare even breathe until they had turned the corner into the upper hallway out of sight. Then Dulcey giggled, and he allowed a chuckle.

"He didn't like that much," Matthew commented as they worked their way down the empty corridor.

Dulcey's face was still pink with delight. "Serves him right," she replied.

She stopped about halfway down, turned to the door number six. His own was back out along the bannister side overlooking the dining room.

"Well, thank you," Dulcey was saying to him, quieting a little. "You are very kind…"

"My pleasure, Miss Coopersmith," he nodded.

"Dulcey, if you like," she offered.

"Dulcey, then," he agreed. "You sure you won't be at the trial tomorrow?" He leaned in, kept his smile. Her blue eyes were locked onto him and she was blushing a little more. "Be good to see a friendly face sitting in a chair."

"No, I'm sorry – well, I've things to do – and…" He got close, took her hand, felt her breath quickening...but then she ducked away, and withdrew her room key from her pocket. "Good night, Mr. Hastings."

He inclined his head, would not push. Pretty, though, so pretty… "Would you be busy tomorrow, after the trial?" he asked her.

"There'll be work to do…" She shook her head, and her shoulders seemed to slump a little.

"Maybe some time in the afternoon?" he suggested.

Her glance came back to him, lingered. "I suppose…"

"Can I take you for a walk – or a ride?"

"Oh, I – well…" She pinked up again.

"I can ask the Marshal, if that's more proper," Matthew prompted.

Dulcey's features quickly tightened, as he knew they would. "That's not necessary. I'd be happy

to see you later in the day, Mr. Hastings-"

"Matthew, please," he corrected.

"Matthew," she amended with a little smile. Her hand fumbled with the key; it took a moment for her to unlock the door. "Well," she said, pocketing the key again. "Good-night."

"Good-night, Dulcey. Sleep well."

"Thank you, Matthew."

He stepped back to allow her to step through the doorway and saw a little of her room, all flowery wallpaper and curly furniture. A waft of her fragrance reached him, sweet and pretty, before she shut the door. He paused a moment longer, then made his way back out to the front hall. He paused there to wave down at Marshal Crown still setting up chairs, then strode to his own room and entered. 

_You're going to give me such a pleasure, Crown. My brother, he didn't die easy. Your shot wasn't clean enough, made him suffer. Well, you'll suffer too. I've followed you, Crown, from Texas, to Kansas and now to here. I've watched and I've waited, just like Luke told me to. _

It'd taken a long time but Crown was finally going to get his. He'd never suspect until it was too late, until he was kneeling before Luke Harper's vengeful little brother with a rope around his neck and his hands behind his back, begging for his life. And Crown would beg. Oh, he might not at first – Luke'd said he was one tough hombre, full of stiff guts. Told him to be always careful around the man, not to strike until he was ready.

_Do it for me, Markie. Kill Crown…make it slow – make him suffer. Watch him die – send him to hell, begging and pleading…_

It'd taken months for Luke to die from the wound that ate him from the inside out. He'd watched his brother endure increasing pain, and the shame as his body betrayed him. Got so angry that he went on his own rampage afterward, ended up jailed for it. A hot-headed kid, too naïve in too many ways. He'd grown smarter since then – prison had a way of tearing away what was soft and replacing it with pure toughness. And once that'd happened he found a way to think and plan, to hone a few skills that would serve him on the outside. And then he'd watched Crown, just like Luke had told him to, trying to find the best way to snare him. Was just outside Abilene when the lawman's orders came in for the Strip – and he'd followed carefully.

He caught a look at his image in the small mirror hanging over the washstand, all neat and tidy. Crown would never know him now, would never suspect who he might've been. And Conroy, that dumb oaf, he'd never guess, either. Slow-witted lout, running at the first sign of trouble. One stick of dynamite, one shout and he'd lit out under a shower of bullets, cursing that nag of his.

Conroy had only been a player in his plan to get close to Crown. Discovering Dulcey right beside the lawman was going to help –a lot.

And Crown – he'd soon be dead….

"I'm ready, Luke," he whispered. "I'm ready…"


	6. Chapter 6

VI.

Territorial Judge Lucius B. Quayle demanded as much order and detail as he could as a way to ease the travails of the court circuit, though he held most expectations in reserve. This was, after all, fairly raw territory in which to sit in judgment. But the Cimarron City courtroom came very close to meeting his satisfaction, despite the converted location. The restaurant and bar had been appropriately closed for business. The floor had been mopped clean. The area had been neatly arranged – prosecution and defense tables and chairs were in straight lines, jury seats made up two nice rows opposite. His polished tabletop held a pen and inkwell at the ready, while the complaints, orders and supporting documentation were stacked in crisp, neat piles. A pitcher of water and a sparkling clean glass sat at the ready should he need to partake. And his gavel sat perfectly center, awaiting his use. The area was secured with an armed deputy at the front door and another ready at the side, both men holding rifles, all washed and clean. He squinted through the lens of the spectacles perched on his nose; there was a camera set up in one corner - someone was going to photograph the event. Well, that was another positive change.

The Marshal was cleaner than most, too, Quayle observed. Washed and shaven, wearing a well tied tie and a buttoned up vest, with his badge pinned on straight and prominently displayed. A broad chested man but all lean, hard muscle. Confident, too, judging from the hardware buckled around him. Quayle had learned to judge the character of a man by the gun he wore, and found that the simpler – and cleaner – the rig the more honest the man. The lawman approaching him wore a smooth gunbelt that held a long barreled .44. The leather was devoid of any embellishment save for a small buckle on the holster and a row of replacement cartridges across the left front. Crown, he mused, from Abilene way. Hadn't yet met the man but had investigated enough to know that he demanded respect for the law – and didn't mind busting a few heads to get it.

He nodded to the Marshal by way of greeting, adjusted his glasses on his nose. "Unusual arrangement," he commented, pointing to the cell area off to his right.

The dark-haired Crown glanced back. "It suits my purpose, sir. Have you found everything in order?"

Quayle grunted and jerked a thumb behind him. "The flag, sir. It's missing." The only fault he could find. No American flag in an American courtroom. Perhaps overlooked…?

"On order from Kansas City," came the Marshal's prompt reply, which made Quayle wonder if it'd succumbed in the ruin that was the former sheriff's office across the street. "All ready to proceed, sir," Crown nodded as the last of the onlookers filled in the remaining available space in the room. "If you're ready?"

The docket did indeed proceed, from least offense to most serious. The lawbreakers were brought up one by one, sat when told, stood when directed, kept their hats off their heads. Victims and witnesses appeared, spoke their piece. The town lawyer argued, the jury paid attention, and decisions were rendered. Quayle set the fines and levied the sentences. All smooth and orderly. As for the farmer accused of trying to shoot the life out of the Marshal, Quayle had to admit he was moved by the presence of the man's family, a wife and son and daughter, who asked to speak on his behalf. Yet the charge was serious. The Territory needed more men the likes of Crown. Quayle shot a glance to the lawman, but Crown sat passively, waiting. Quayle ordered another ten days, to which his counterpart did not object. Carter's family was understandably upset, but the man was now plenty sober and sorrowful, and accepted his fate.

"I never saw this man in my life!" the last lawbreaker shouted as he was brought forward. Conroy, Quayle noted, scanning the charges written up against him in Crown's bold, clear strokes. Not enough for a hanging offense, but plenty for the Territorial Prison. Lucky for him the young witness hadn't died from the gunshot wound.

Conroy pointed with manacled hands at the slender young man now seated before the jury. "He's lying!" the robber yelled. "I don't know how he got shot but I didn't do it!"

"Be quiet!" threatened Crown, shoving him into a chair, "or I'll gag you." At a nod both deputies neared, rifles held ready. The jury murmured nervously. Quayle banged his gavel with quick authority, nodded for the young witness to begin.

It didn't take long. The witness told his story calmly, without embellishment or much emotion, only looked warily at the seething prisoner. The lawyer made a half-hearted defense. The jury huddled behind the bar for a bit then came forward with the verdict – guilty. Upon which the robber set up a verbal and physical dissent, and it took both deputies and two jurymen to get him back to his cell.

When Crown offered no other business for the docket, Quayle adjourned the court. The clock on the wall read eleven fifty-two a.m. Pleased, he stood and stretched. "Nicely done," he complimented the Marshal. Crown had been well trained along the way. He'd make a good lawyer – or a politician. Though he didn't seem too inclined to part with his .44 just yet. But perhaps in a few years – the man was still young, and seemed to have made it this far with no obvious scars or injuries to slow him down.

"Thank you, sir." Crown nodded back, with obvious self-satisfaction.

"Judge!" the younger of the two deputies hailed, rushing over. "Please, sir, if I might take a picture or two?" He indicated the camera. "I'm a photographer," he quickly explained.

Quayle was happy to oblige the boy, stood straight and still while several photographs were taken, of he alone, then he and Crown, then the jury members, all for some annals of history.

"Do you think I could interview you, sir, about the trial?" the younger man asked next. "I'd like your viewpoint."

"The law is the law, young man," Quayle intoned. "That is the only viewpoint."

"That's what I keep telling him," Crown added dryly.

The young man pressed on. "I'd like your side of things – about being a judge, riding the circuit, dispensing the law, holding fate in your hands for both victims and criminals, that sort of thing..."

Quayle grunted. "Never had this sort of interest in my court before."

"Francis is also a reporter," Crown explained with a lazy smile. "He likes to show the folks back East what it's like out here."

"Our brand of justice is no different," Quayle told the boy, and then gave a glance about. "Despite our…alternative arrangements. But I suppose a word or two..."

"Happy to have you stay with us here at the Wayfarer's next trip out," Crown offered, taking the documents out of his hands for filing. "The menu here is turning out to be the best in town."

Quayle took up his hat, resettled his glasses on his nose. "I'd like that, Marshal. You run a firm operation, sir. I'm impressed. Though next time, be sure I have a flag, sir."

* * *

><p>Crown closed the bottom half of his office door behind him and let off a relieved breath. Nothing like making a good impression on the circuit judge. Not that Quayle would be here every time, but the judges were a friendly sort with one another, got together on occasion to talk about law and other things, mostly about bad courtrooms and even worse food. This might give them something new to chew on.<p>

He picked up the signed orders binding Conroy over to the Territorial Prison up in Kansas – he'd have to send a wire, make plans for delivery, secure the train. Beaver City had a prison wagon – he'd have to remember that. He'd have to use Fort Smith or Topeka if the judges weren't coming through; Judge Parker held regular court in Arkansas. Time, it was all going to take time.

He looked out to the dining room. Still no Dulcey. He thought she'd stay for the trial, and was rather disappointed not to find her seated in the gallery. He'd wanted her to see the importance of using her space for the court, see how justice was successful even way out here in this dusty, dirty part of this country. But she'd only slapped his breakfast in front of him early and stalked up the stairs. When he heard a door slam he figured she'd returned to her room. Surely she hadn't been there all the while. Maybe she'd slipped off shopping, though most of the stores were closed on account of the interest in the court. He didn't want their business arrangement to become an issue between them. It was she who had suggested turning the wine cellar into permanent jail cells. But if she couldn't agree to a once-a-month agreement, then perhaps this wasn't going to work out. Crown sighed, and supposed he could re-rent that broken down sheriff's office from Jack Kilgallen and set up another round pen jail while it got fixed up.

Or maybe he just needed to talk to Miss Dulcey – she seemed the sort of female that liked explanations. Maybe he could…

"Marshal…" Hastings was limping up to his door. "Did I do all right, sir?"

"Just fine," Crown approved. "You were very valuable to that jury."

"Why, thank you," he nodded back. "Sure is…" His smile slipped quickly off; he sagged under a pained look.

Crown reached over and caught him by the arm. "You all right?"

"My leg…" he gasped.

"Crown!" shouted Conroy from the cells. "Crown, I wanna talk to you!"

"Come on." Crown eased out his door and tugged Hastings forward, was surprised at the wiry strength in the muscle he held – he'd thought the boy mostly soft. "Let me get you to your room – I'll fetch the doc – Dulcey!" But she still wasn't about, so he fired an order off to Mac instead.

"Sorry, Marshal," the young man mumbled, leaning heavily on his arm as they negotiated the wide stairway.

"You stay as long as you need to, son," Crown told him. "You did us all a favor putting Conroy away."

"Appreciate that, truly, sir." The boy puffed a bit as they made the last stair and turned to address the next few steps to the balustraded hallway. "Miss Coopersmith," he abruptly began, "she sure is nice, isn't she?"

"Very," Crown agreed absently, rattling open the door and easing the boy onto the bed.

"Running this place all by herself…"

"She has help."

"Mr. MacGregor, I know." The boy allowed a grunt as Crown swung the injured leg up onto the mattress. "Still and all…"

"Mr. Hastings…" Crown felt the now familiar warning come to his lips. But guilt gave him a firm poke between the shoulder blades and made him hesitate over the rest.

A pretty and approachable girl like Dulcey was a naturally friendly sort. Good-hearted, honest, trusting. And maybe he was just too jaded against folks. He'd long made it his business to look for trouble first and niceties after; the badge required it. Besides, he himself wasn't after any kind of friendships – oh, he appreciated them all right, but in his business his relationships were more often than not working sorts of ones. He rarely took time off, and didn't give much time over for personal gains, except maybe fishing. And most folks didn't see him as anything else but a lawman. Except Dulcey...

Maybe he had been using his badge to discourage others. What by what right did he have to treat her that way? He held no claim on her – she was of an age to make her own decisions. His only duty was to look after anyone within his jurisdiction, and she fell into that category. But…

But when he peeked underneath all that business, he had to admit something else. He liked Dulcey. Living and working under her roof had made her more than an acquaintance. There were years separating them, not to mention experiences, but she was the one he had the most daily contact with in Cimarron. You got to know a person by eating the meals they fixed for you and the clothes they washed for you, and the conversation they shared with you. Dulcey was more than a merchant he might wave to on the street. He saw her every day. Okay, sometimes more than once a day. She was a friend, sort of; that brought out his protective side.

But it shouldn't do any more, he silently reproved himself. And she had a right to relationships of her own choosing.

"Would it be all right if I might ask her for a walk later, sir?" Hastings now asked. "Just through the town – if the Doc says it's all right?"

His reluctant tone rolled out before he could stop it. "She gets mighty busy…"

"I guess you're right," Hastings sighed and let his eyes close for a moment. "Maybe you could let her know I asked after her, sir?"

_Back off,_ he told himself, but had a hard time swallowing his own advice because the thought came to him again that he knew this boy from some place. Or he'd known men like him, those that found themselves shining under newfound attention that faded their own inadequacies. And turning bad when it didn't all work out for them. But this one – he just seemed too familiar…

"I'll let her know," he answered a little sharply, but the boy didn't seem to mind the tone.

"Thank you, Marshal. I truly appreciate it. It's nice to have a friendly face in town – makes a stranger feel welcome…"

Crown didn't respond, just left quietly before he started to argue the differences between friends and strangers, and of the notions separating young men from sweet girls…

Instead of heading back downstairs he crossed the hall and turned toward her room, but once there he paused, hand held up to rap on the panel. Maybe he'd caused enough trouble for one day. And keeping some distance between them might be for the best. But guilt was jabbing him again. "Miss Dulcey?" he called, tapping politely.

Nothing. He tried the door, called again – locked and quiet. Bothered, Crown walked away.

Doctor Kihlgren was just coming up the stairs, his tall hat rammed tight on his broad head. "Boy overdid it, did he?" growled the physician, fading red moustaches quivering over his lip. "Told him to be careful when I first treated him in Hardesty – the young ones never listen, do they?"

"I'm beginning to find that out," Crown declared. He made his way back to the dining room, yanking off his tie, unbuttoning his vest and rolling up his sleeves, easing into more comfort. His eye swept the area – she wasn't here. He angled sideways, headed for the kitchen, looked inside – empty. Not even any dishes stacked waiting for use, no bread waiting to be sliced, no vegetables on the sideboard. Frustrated, Crown headed back out into the big room.

MacGregor and Francis were still putting the chairs and tables back into place. Febrizio was tending the bar and turning away lunch customers with a shrug and shake of his head.

"Crown!" hollered Conroy. "Crown, you gotta talk to me!"

"Later!" Crown called back. "You settle down first." He strode over to his deputies. "Where's the girl?"

"Who, Dulcey?" MacGregor shrugged as he awkwardly spread a tablecloth. "I wouldn't know, man, though her assistance would be appreciated just now. All we have for hungry customers is a few hard boiled eggs! If she's not in the kitchen-"

"She is not."

"And not in her room?"

"I knocked on the door – no answer."

"She's probably headed to the graveyard," Francis contributed, pushing a chair into place. At the twin stares and rapid silence quickly turned onto him he continued in a stammer, "Well, her father's buried there – she mentioned…"

Crown jumped forward, instant worry pulsing through him. "And you let her go – alone?"

"It's her father," Francis protested under the deepening glare. "I didn't think…"

"No, you didn't think," Crown cut him off and whirled to point at MacGregor. "And you didn't either. It's not safe for her to go off by herself. She doesn't leave the town proper unescorted, you hear me?"

They both stared, open-mouthed for a moment. Then Francis straightened, shame-faced. "Yes, Marshal. I'll go."

"You mind the jail." Crown was already moving off. "I'll go."


	7. Chapter 7

VII.

He saddled with quick efficiency – though hobbled by broken toes, Seth had already done his daily tending of the gelding, and the tack was stored together and clean. Crown slipped the bit into the horse's mouth and mounted at the doorway, took an immediate lope and headed away from the town proper. The gelding was eager to move so he let it have a quick go and didn't slow until the cemetery fence came into sight. Self-reproach kept punching him all the way. He should've made his intentions clear about Dulcey's safety to his deputies. He should've insisted that she stay for the court proceedings, anticipated her impudence. Should've known her stubborn hadn't ebbed overnight. He should've – dammit, it was done now.

He hadn't spotted her on the road. If she wasn't at the graveyard…

He swung down before the gates, tied the horse to a post and stepped through, his pounding heart easing as he saw her. A thorough look about told him there was no one else around. There were no strange shadows cast on the ground and no rustling in the nearby scrub. No glint of sun on metal. No sound of footsteps but his own. It was quiet, like a cemetery should be, hushed and lonely.

Dulcey was standing at the fresh grave, her head covered by a bonnet that held her long light hair into a simple fall down her back. It shone brightly in the afternoon light against the gloom of the place. She wore a gray-green dress, almost blended into the landscape but for that hair. Crown decided he didn't like the color on her. Not that it mattered what she wore and he wouldn't tell her anyway, but he much preferred the pink dress she had, or the blue one.

He removed his hat and stood quietly while she continued to pay her respects to the father she hadn't seen since she was five years old. Then she bent and placed the clutch of blooming wildflowers in her gloved hands at the foot of the cross-shaped marker. And stayed crouched, one hand sweeping across the crumbling mound of dirt. Crown gave her more time for her reflection, though he couldn't help shifting from foot to foot and passing his hat from hand to hand, impatient to speak to her. Concern, he told himself. Those two out-of-work jaspers from the other day could've easily followed her. He knew they were still lounging about, despite his warning to them. It wouldn't take much for a leer to turn into something worse…

She had straightened, was stepping his way. Crown jammed his hat back onto his head, jumped forward. "Miss Coopersmith!"

Dulcey gave a start, looked up with evident surprise. "Oh… yes, Marshal?"

"I don't want you coming up here alone." He hadn't meant to bark it out like that, but he'd held himself in too long to begin with niceties.

Anger frosted the blue of her eyes and firmed up the set of her lips. She straightened to her full height; he hadn't noticed that she was fairly tall. "Marshal Crown, I don't see-"

"It's too dangerous," he cut her off. "Makes you a target for any whipped up cowboy, bored lonely soldier, or tired-eyed farmer looking for something fresh…"

"Mister Crown, if you please!" she reprimanded. He sucked up the rest behind his teeth, whereupon his gums promptly began to ache. "This is not part of your jurisdiction," Dulcey told him. "And you're over reacting…"

"In case you haven't noticed," Crown began, stepping close. Too close, for she involuntarily backed up a step. Her face was full of high color, a pretty pink that went nicely with her blonde hair. "There aren't too many single women about town…" _And those that are can't come close to you in prettiness…_

"And what does that have to do with anything?" she demanded.

"I told you – there are rough men out here and they don't always respect a lady."

She made a point of looking about. He followed her gaze, felt some sheepishness come up over him at the sight of his gelding lazily swishing its tail and some dust floating by. That was it – not even the clouds above were moving. Dulcey's brows rose with amusement. "I don't seem to be in any danger," she stated.

"Miss, Dulcey, I don't want to see you hurt," he stated. "If you're intent on staying in Cimarron-"

Her back stiffened considerably. "You know I'm staying."

Crown swore to himself. Why did she have to be so stubborn, petulant? Immature? Why couldn't she just nod her head and agree with him? _You're out of practice, Crown_, chided a voice inside him_. Too long out of practice. She's a woman, a young lady, not some silent squaw, or a tough-eyed sporting girl. A young lady…_

Dulcey was all curtains and flowers; she was all order and neatness, friendliness and trust, and he had seen so little of that in the past ten years. The women he'd encountered in that time had been anything but flowery or delicate – most were as rough as the men they associated with. Some had the softness washed right out of them, or had left it behind long ago. They'd given up on manners. They were blunt – or silent. They gave as they got. Mothers, daughters, orphans – they'd all been variations of the same, far from home and niceties, long removed from civility.

And now here was Dulcey, fresh from Providence and the settled life she'd had there, bringing all her manners and youth and exuberance with her. With a voice that asked what was on her female mind. She wanted explanations; she wasn't looking at the badge he wore but right through it, to the man behind. Yet surely she understood authority. He knew she respected it – and him. Young, he reminded himself as his gaze ran over her again. Optimistic. Trusting.

He was old, he realized, and a little worn down. A man reached a time of age and experience when he saw things too clearly, devoid of frippery or finery. That's what settled this part of the country, the blood and the dirt and the fights. That's what he was used to. Now he was working and sleeping the path of youth and innocence and femininity in the person of Dulcey Coopersmith. He found himself uncomfortable with it, with her. Cimarron wasn't right for her, not yet, maybe not ever. He'd kept that eastbound train ticket for her – the one he'd offered her that first night here – just in case she might want to go back home to the safe and settled city of Providence. But judging by the set of her fine jaw as she stood before him, she hadn't given up yet.

"I'm not saying you can't come up here," he tried in a gentler voice. "I'm asking that you find someone to come with you when you do. For the time being – for your own safety." He paused, but she wasn't readying any answer. Or agreement. He gritted his teeth. "It's the same advice I'd give to any other lady in this town. All right?"

Her glare softened. She looked down at the grave and the scrubby grass beginning to sprout over it. "I asked Mr. Gibson to make a new marker," she said softly. "So he won't be forgotten…"

Why did that jab him deep in a soft spot below his heart? "That sounds fine," he allowed. "We'll bring a wagon next time, put it in nice and straight." Inwardly he cringed – had he just offered that? She didn't need any encouragement and he'd just given her plenty. "Miss Dulcey…" He paused. "You want to head back now?" _Please_, he silently pleaded, back to town and the Inn where things were at least somewhat normal.

She nodded, and he stepped aside to let her lead the way back to the gates. "Missed you at the court," he tried, untying the gelding and trying for some kind of conversation that would be more comfortable for the both of them.

"I thought I would use my time more wisely," she replied in a cool tone and he regretted bringing up the subject. "Did it go well?"

"It did," he nodded, appreciating her graciousness over his gaffe. Silence quickly dropped back between them. He held out the reins to her. "You want to ride?"

She looked up nervously at the black. "No, thank you," she primly refused. "I'll walk."

Then he would, too. Not that he was one for walking the countryside when he could ride, but he hadn't completely forgotten some gentlemanly manners. At least the landscape here was nice enough. The road here was wide and smooth, without enough brush to hide much of a man. From this rise you could view all comers in any directions. The sky was a nice shade of blue. It wasn't too hot and there was now an easy breeze sliding past them. From far off a dog barked and a cow lowed. Voices came up from the town, along with a faint rumble of street traffic. A young child called to someone.

And there was a pretty girl at his side. Crown glanced over at Dulcey's clear profile. If he was ten years younger he might be a-courting. He grunted softly to himself in disapproval. Jim Crown wasn't the marrying type – so far, anyway.

"Have you ever been east, Marshal?" Dulcey asked, sidling a quick glance over to him.

"Washington," he replied with a shrug, noting how her stride easily matched his. At least there'd been some ladies there, and he'd managed well enough with them.

"Some say that's south," Dulcey commented.

"I guess so."

"New York, then? Boston?"

He shook his head; let a smile lift a corner of his mouth. "Not even Providence." He pointed behind him. "Kansas to the north and Mexico to the south, and a whole of prairie in between. I grew up down Texas way. Cowboyed, scouted for the Army…" Why was he telling her this? He was flapping his jaws like a lonely line camp rider.

"Did you fight the Indians?" she asked eagerly.

He grunted again. "Some." Far more than some, but he didn't figure she'd appreciate the details. And most of it was downright too gruesome to talk about, certainly not proper parlor talk.

"Have you ever seen the ocean, then?" she inquired next.

He nodded with relief – something they had in common. "I was in Galveston once. Pretty powerful water." He paused, then added, "I hear the water's cold up Providence way."

She let out a pretty smile with her little laugh of delight. "Oh, it is! Freezing, even in summer." He had a quick vision of her in bare legs running along the deep sand, rushing to escape the chilly waves-

The gelding pulled up, let off a snort of concern. Crown immediately halted, hand already to the .44.

"Is there-?" began Dulcey but his fingers squeezed her arm and silenced her.

The brush that wasn't enough to hold much of a man was quivering – and scuffling. And crying.

Crown dropped the reins and the black obligingly stood still. He was easing his gun from his holster when a child broke into view from the scrub at the road edge. A young boy, perhaps six or seven, bareheaded and light haired, dirty and scratched. "Annie!" he pleaded plaintively. "Annie!"

Crown strode over to him, took a little arm. "Son, whatever are you doing way out here by yourself?" he demanded. "Where's your family?"

"I came looking for Annie," the boy cried, gulping on sobs. "She's lost – I got to find her."

"Well, who is Annie?" The youngster only cried harder and tried to pull away. "You're not going anywhere," Crown told him, catching some shirtfront. "Now stop fussing and tell me where you belong. And who's Annie?"

"Oh, for goodness sakes!" Dulcey rebuked, rushing over. "Stop shouting at him!" She crouched, gathered the weeping child close. "There, there," she soothed. "You're all right now, we'll help you…" Over the boy's blond head she gave him a murderous glare.

He made a frustrated sound and looked about, spied an animal ambling into the road – a dun-colored goat, with a frayed rope tether dragging at its side. "Miss Dulcey…"

She was wiping the youngster's tears with her hand, asking him his name in a comforting voice he hadn't heard before. "Benjy, all right," she nodded. "I'm Dulcey, and this is Marshal Crown. Now, who is Annie and how did she get lost?"

"I'm guessing that's her," Crown drawled, pointing.

The boy looked up. "Annie!" he cried. "My goat!"

Both little boy and young lady gave him plaintive looks. So this was how it was going to go – U.S. Marshal James Crown, rounding up one recalcitrant goat. Crown held in his sigh, ripped off a bunch of green grasses sprouting nearby and eased toward the skittish goat, slipping into the low tones once reserved for boogerish steers. The critter easily accepted his offering, for which he was glad. Running around creation chasing a complaining nanny goat in boots barely made for walking was not an action he wanted witnessed by either the youngster or the lady. He took up the trailing rope lead and towed the animal back to the boy, over the animal's bleats of protest.

"Now," he said to Dulcey's amused grin, trying to hold onto his sense of authority. "Where's home, Benjy?"

"Not sure," the boy quavered, twisting his little head about. "Ma was in town. I was supposed to stay back but Annie got loose. She'd be awful mad if the goat got lost so I went after."

"Well, we'll just take you into Cimarron and the Marshal will find your mother," Dulcey promised, unaffected by the scowl Crown levied onto her. She awkwardly picked Benjy up and started to walk with him, his little arms tight around her neck, his feet banging against her knees.

"Hold on." Crown handed the goat over and took the boy from her. "Okay, pard," he tried in a gentler tone. "Why don't you ride?" He lifted the youngster astride the saddle. "Here, take the reins – don't hold on too tight. Ol' Rocky, he already knows the way back." He wrapped the far rein around the saddle horn and gave the end to the boy, then took up the other. At the sight of Dulcey stiffly holding the anxious goat he reached over took the animal from her.

"Thank you, Marshal," she smiled gratefully.

"Don't mention it," he said grouchily. City girl, he remembered. Housemaid_. Probably never saw a goat in her life._ Maybe she should get one and use the milk for her kitchen cooking. Then he scowled – she'd probably ask him to show her how to milk it. "You just make sure Benjy holds on."

"I will!" the boy piped up excitedly, his worries all but forgotten from his perch atop the big horse. "Thanks, Marshal!"

He couldn't help but smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "Happy to help, son."

He towed the willing gelding forward and kept the goat well away from the large hooves. Dulcey took up a position on the other side and easily kept up again, despite his ground-eating strides. She began a pleasant conversation with the boy, chatting about Providence, the ocean, the sailing ships there. Benjy's childish and excited questions quickly evolved into some kind of word game that had them giggling and laughing. By the time they reached Main Street the gelding was ambling easily and goat was not, but the girl and the child were still happily at it. How did she do it? Crown wondered silently. How quickly she put folks at ease.

MacGregor approached on those long loping legs of his. "Would this laddie be young Master Benjy Frost?" he asked. "He's got a distraught Ma waiting…"

Crown easily lifted the boy down and Dulcey took his hand. "See? I told you the Marshal would find your mother," she told the youngster in an assuring tone. "Come on, let's go to her. You must be thirsty after that long ride – would you like some milk…?"

"Oh, lass," Mag caught her arm. "The young laddie, Mr. Hastings, asked after you. I said I'd pass the word."

"Oh – well," she blushed just a little and gave off a delighted little smile. "Thank you, Mr. MacGregor…Thank you very much." Her look darted back to Crown and he saw that her eyes were smiling as well. "Come along, Benjy…"

She took her smiles and the boy and headed quickly inside, leaving Crown standing in the heat and the dust with a horse snorting at his side and a goat bleating at his knee. And with a headache starting over one eye.

"Everything all right?" Mac asked him, and he realized he was scowling.

Crown released his lowered brow and handed over the goat. "Just fine now," he reported but couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. "See that the boy and his ma get back to the settlement, would you? I'll put up the horse."

"And Dulcey?"

"At the graveyard, like Francis said." Crown gave a sigh. "I don't see why he isn't interested in her. They would be good for each other."

MacGregor let out a little laugh and shook his head. "Nae, Marshal. You have that all wrong. Francis might shine an eye toward her, but she'll never see it. That lad Hastings, now-" But he broke off as Crown let off a sound of consternation. "Well, maybe she'll catch a rancher boy's eyes – that'd be more the type for her."

Somehow that didn't go down Crown's throat either.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII.

"Crown! Marshal, I wanna talk to you! Right now, you hear me?"

Sid Conroy was as angry today as he had been at his trial four days ago. Crown supposed he'd held off the robber long enough. That Kansas train was coming tomorrow and he'd send the man on his way to Territorial Prison. Might as well hear what was on the man's mind and be done with it. Not that it would make any difference at this point. But it might shut the fellow up.

"Now Crown! You've dallied long enough!" shouted Conroy.

Crown threw his pencil down, crossed the room in two strides, shoved aside Dulcey's privacy curtains and ambled down the short corridor to the cells. Woodrow Carter, the only other cell occupant, glanced inquiringly at him but didn't say anything. Sid Conroy was standing at his cell door, his round face anxious, dark eyes snapping with fury. Crown made sure the other man saw him remove the loop holding his .44 as he pulled to a stop in the doorway, far enough from the reach of both men.

"All right, spit out what's been eating your liver," he stated.

Conroy glanced at Carter and the skinny man turned away and picked up the newspaper Crown had given him to read. "I didn't shoot that boy," Conroy said in a lowered voice.

Crown let out a short sigh. "So you said. Is that it?"

"Listen," Conroy's thick fingers tightened around the bars. "I was in Hardesty that day the freight office was robbed. But it wasn't me that done it. I don't know who-all done it. That witness of yours is lying. He might've seen me, but it wasn't me busting out of that building. He's confused…or he's lying."

"He saw you clear," Crown reminded him. "He said…"

"I know what he said. But it wasn't me, I'm telling you!"

"We caught you halfway into the Outlet," Crown barked back. "You were running like there were a dozen Comanches after you."

Conroy made a frustrated sound and paced a little. "Of course I was running! Me in town when the safe gets robbed, and then the law chasing my tail? I might've been thinking of pulling that job, but someone got to it before me. And that boy witness of yours got his story wrong! I ran and I didn't shoot! You want to charge me with robbing grocery stores and sod busters in wagons, fine. But not this – I didn't do this!" He stepped back up to the cell door. "You didn't find any of that money on me."

"The boy saw you drop a bag," Crown scoffed. "You had time to bury the rest."

"Marshal, I'd show you where it was if I did bury it." The robber's voice took on a measure of earnestness that Crown felt was at least half-truthful. "But I didn't. You ask that kid again. You ask him why he ain't telling it straight. I sure as hell don't know him, and I never saw him before. But he sure…"

His lips twitched but he didn't say it. He didn't have to – Crown knew what he wanted to say, because it'd been on his own mind ever since he'd met the boy. _But he sure reminds me of someone I know..._

There was just something about young Hastings that seemed familiar somehow, but Crown was damned to know what it was. Even after three more restless nights of thinking on it he still came up short. But something about the boy would not let him dismiss it from his mind.

And now Conroy had said just as much the same thing.

"Where you from – originally?" Crown asked the robber now, trying to make some kind of connection. He was a minor outlaw, Crown knew, had worked mostly in Indian Territory. A nuisance sort of robber that was bound to get his sooner or later. Younger than Crown, but older than Hastings.

"Texas way," Conroy blurted, caught off guard by the question. "Heard of you in El Paso…"

El Paso – after the army but before Abilene, in terms of his own history.

"Spend any time in Kansas?" Crown asked. "Ellsworth, Dodge – Abilene?"

"No, never that far," Conroy shook his head.

Texas…El Paso. Crown frowned in consideration. He'd jailed many a drunk, robber and grifter there; more in Abilene. Ran with more than his share of those who stayed on the wrong side of Texas law before that. It was possible he and Conroy knew relatives of Hastings, though he wasn't familiar with the name. Might know a cousin, though.

Or maybe Hastings was using an alias…

Crown straightened, realized he'd let his mind drift into dust blown regions, looking for connections to a guilty outlaw's pleas. Time to end this maligned conversation. But at least Conroy might be over his cholera now.

"I'm sorry, Conroy," he shook his head, "but the trial is over. The jury found you guilty on that boy's evidence. It can't be undone."

"Damn you, Crown!" Conroy seethed.

"I need something besides your say-so," Crown replied matter-of-factly. "If I relied on that then I'd've been chased out of this business a long time ago. A man can change his tune once he's corralled behind bars. I know – I did a little singing myself years back."

Conroy growled something, smacked his fist into his palm, turned about the cell a few times. Anger stiffened the set of his thick shoulders. Finally he halted. "Ask that kid again, Marshal," he urged. "Ask him hard. Keep asking. See if he changes his story. Find out about him – I hear you're good at digging. Could be he has some reason to lie to you."

Crown shrugged. "I don't have any legal reason to question him."

"A lawman like you don't need a reason. 'Sides, he's still hanging around town. What's he want?"

More of Dulcey's attention, for one thing, Crown thought sourly. Hastings and the girl had become quick friends. And the boy was nothing but polite, through and through. No swearing, no drinking, no gun on his hip. Doffed his hat, said please and thank you at all the right times. And he was still here. Four days after the trial. Started out doing a little work for Gibson repairing wheels and table legs and such. Knew his way around a saw and a hammer, the old carpenter reported. Now he'd lined up a job repairing the old sheriff's office, had wrangled a deal with Jack Kilgallen to do all the wood repair for the whole block. And Kilgallen, knowing a deal when it floated by, had eagerly taken the boy up on his offer, no doubt saving some money by shorting him on wages in the process.

Still…

Still it kept prodding Crown, despite all of Hastings' polite talk and ways. Like an itch he couldn't reach to scratch. He knew that kid – somehow…

He leveled a look on the robber. "I've listened, Conroy. Can't do much more."

He moved away.

"Think about it, Crown!" Conroy shouted after him. "Think on it – you'll see!"

Crown shut the door and made his way back to his office, turned about the space, thinking, feeling, knowing he had to decide what to do. That inner part of him, the piece that he had learned not to ignore, told him that one of those men was wrong. But which one – Conroy or young Matthew Hastings?

He knew enough about Conroy…

He grabbed his hat, took a Winchester from the rack, plucked his coat from the tree stand, swung out into the empty dining room. His nose took a moment to appreciate the aroma of a good chicken stew that was going to be tonight's dinner – and one he was going to miss.

"Mac," he called to his chief deputy huddled with Dulcey at a table overflowing with paperwork. "You're in charge," he told the Scotsman. "I'm heading to Hardesty."

"Now, man?" Mac protested. "What the devil for?" Beside him Dulcey gave him a frown. "It'll be nightfall before you get back."

"Then I'll stay over."

"Marshal…" Francis edged past the batwing doors and jerked a thumb behind him. "Ezra Jacobs says someone's been stealing from his place. Found out when he did his inventory."

"That place has been locked up tight every night," MacGregor complained back. "I know – I've checked it."

"I told him," Francis shrugged. "But he says he can't account for some things… matches, rope, kerosene, stuff like that. Wants to know what we're going to do about it."

"Maybe he should watch his customers more closely," Crown offered. _And spend less time standing out front watching Dulcey_. "Check around with the other merchants – see if anyone else is missing things," he advised. "I'll follow up when I get back. Put Conroy on that train in the morning for me," he directed MacGregor.

He gave them a wave and strode out, but not before he saw Dulcey's "be careful" warning in her eyes.

Careful, yes, like always – and thorough.


	9. Chapter 9

IX.

Hoofbeats…

He peered out of the ravaged building and smiled. _Crown… _The Marshal jogged by below, heading the big black horse toward the livery. He was back – at least for the moment.

If he had learned anything about the man, it was that Crown was anything but predictable in routine. Some mornings he joined his little trio of new friends for a full breakfast, others he grabbed only coffee and came back later for a meal. Still others he took it all into his office and closed the door. It would be hard to lure him, what with him in and out all the time. But it had to be soon before he gave into any suspicions. The trip to Hardesty had been wholly unplanned – the girl told him so, said she often knew when to pack his saddlebags. Trouble in Guymon had put him back on the road for two more days. Today he'd spent the morning at the settlement, where some rancher's boys had stirred things up.

Crown wasn't going to find anything on him in Hardesty – or beyond. Not under this name. He'd taken pains to cover his tracks. He had no special identifying marks on him that would be noted or remembered. And he'd changed everything he could about himself. He'd found new clothes, shaved off his beard, and cut his hair. He'd even altered his voice to that pretty polite tone he was using. No one would know him.

He turned back to his business, re-appraising the items arrayed before him, lovingly stroking them – the coil of rope and matching noose, the rags and matches, kerosene, the long knife, and the special club he'd made – such perfect torture weapons. Some he'd brought with him, others he'd easily stolen from under that fat merchant's nose, and a few others in town. It wouldn't do to filch from just one store – that would arouse suspicion, and he'd worked too hard to ruin his plans with any such carelessness.

"Crown," he whispered, touching them one by one, savoring the thoughts of how he was going to use them, which one first. He'd have plenty of time to watch the man he hated suffer so slowly, watch skin peel and blood run. There'd be time to wreck muscle, expose bone. And do it in the daylight so he could see the fear, smell the agony, touch the damage…oh, yes…Slow, oh so slowly…

His leg twinged – he laughed softly at the pain. It'd all been so easy – slip into the bank, steal the money, order up an explosion, drop a bag at Conroy's feet and let the town explode. Then he'd taken his gun, angled it toward his own leg, and pulled the trigger. The pain had been brilliant, and for a long few moments he'd run on the sheer power of the feeling, then toppled over with both feet kicking, trying to crawl because it was still flowing through him and he didn't want it to stop. Only passed out when that doctor finally showed up and tore it cleanly from the muscle. Even now when it acted up he felt some of that excitement thrum through him.

His plan was all in place now – he just needed the lure. The girl – his mind turned to her again. He didn't want to use her, but Crown was too unpredictable otherwise. If he put her away good and tight Crown would come for her – he wouldn't let anything happen to her. A little ripple of jealousy coursed through him – if it wasn't for Crown, he'd surely be in a position to put an honest design on her. "Damn you," he said bitterly to the empty room. It was all Crown's fault, everything. Dulcey – yes…

All he had to do was pick the time. He'd have to move quickly once he decided the moment was right. That would be risky, but he would not stop now. He'd made a dying promise to Luke, would keep his vow. No matter the risk.

He picked up the knife, stroked the blade – and then hurled it across the room. The hilt quivered as it stuck fast into the wall. "For you, Luke," he said to the broken space before him, envisioning blood and smoke and burning, bleeding skin. "This is all for you."

Crown was back and would soon be dead.

Avenged.

* * *

><p>"There," Dulcey declared to the young man watching her, all too aware of his admiring gaze upon her backside. She found herself pleasantly dismayed at the thought. It wasn't as if she'd willingly allowed him the sight – he'd wandered in as the last of the bread was finishing, helped himself to a seat opposite and started an easy conversation with her. She should've better positioned herself but she'd been concerned about the bread – she could not afford to waste a loaf by burning it. Profits from the Inn were as yet slim, and something as simple as flour was still a luxury item.<p>

She straightened and turned, the bread pan held carefully in her covered hands. She put it alongside the others already cooling on the worktable. "That's the last of them."

"I'd eat it hot, it smells so good," Matthew Hastings exclaimed, reaching forward.

"No you don't!" Dulcey scolded, batting his hand away. "That is for breakfast." She stooped again to close the oven door, and then quickly shifted to the side to complete the task, glad that the heat of the stove masked most of her blush.

"I bet you could sell it right now, by the slice," Matthew suggested, gesturing to the golden results. "Those drinkers out there would put up two bits apiece for a taste of that."

Dulcey chuckled. "I'll have to consider it then. It might help profits." The Marshal would be first in line, she thought distractedly. He so loved fresh bread, she'd discovered. Her very first loaf baked weeks ago had him drifting in looking for some, to which she'd delightedly shared. Now he was a regular snitch, somehow sneaking in to grab a slice or two when she wasn't looking. She knew she could stop him at any time, but she liked seeing this playful side of Crown; he was altogether too serious. Chasing after her all the way to the cemetery on a pretense of danger. For goodness sakes; by the looks of the graves out at the place, it wasn't visited or tended in the least. Perhaps after dark the shadows and alleys might hold a lurking figure or two, but surely not in full daylight. The Marshal had been around outlaws and robbers too long – he saw crime where it didn't even exist. Cimarron was a fast growing town and quickly becoming settled. The merchants were well established. There was regular mail service, and rail service. There was already talk of a library fund. To be sure, there was a lot of dust, and a lot of travelers. But with Crown here to see that the law was enforced, and so far doing a very good job of it, there wasn't much to be too concerned about.

She'd rather liked their conversation of the other day, even if she'd had to work around his shouting at poor little Benjy. Once Crown settled down he was easy enough to talk to. He seemed to have done so much before he'd settled on a law career. No wonder Francis wanted to exploit him a little – Crown wasn't all that far from the legend Francis was trying to make for him. He certainly had enough confidence in himself – but that's what legends were all about, weren't they? Long on experience and capability and skill. Crown was all that and more. He even knew how to handle a protesting goat, Dulcey thought to herself with a smile. Surely he knew how to milk a cow, too. Though for all that, he didn't seem too comfortable around her.

Maybe skirts flustered him. Or just long skirts – she heard that the girls over at Pony Jane's wore them at the knee, and it was said about town that Crown had already spent some time over there. Well, let him get all bothered there instead of at her. She owned the Wayfarer's and was quite capable of making her own decisions, business and personal.

Matthew rose, tall and lean, his own hair gilded by the lamplight, blocking out her musings of the Marshal. "I swear, Dulcey," he said with a wide smile that held a lot of warmth, "you could bring a man to his knees with what comes from this kitchen."

"You're too kind," she demurred, but that happy feeling flooded her again. Mathew, so kind and friendly, so – uncomplicated.

"It's true!" And he went down, assuming a prayerful pose, palms uplifted, green eyes appealing to her. "Miss Dulcey Coopersmith, golden princess of the Cimarron…"

"Stop," Dulcey laughed, wiping at one of her cheeks. "Some princess – I've flour all over myself." _And with my hair wrapped in a rag…_

"A sweet confection of beauty…"

"Now you sound like Francis – and don't give him any ideas," Dulcey warned playfully.

"Fair of hair, pure of heart," Matthew continued unabashed, smiling widely. "In her hands, all beauty beckons …"

Dulcey laughed again. "Get up, you silly." She reached over and gave him a tap on the shoulder.

"She knights me, O Fair One!" he declared adoringly and seized her hand –

His grip tingled; it stilled her. Perhaps he wasn't playacting. And perhaps neither was she. "Um, Matthew…" she began, suddenly quite breathless.

"Dulcey," he whispered. His eyes, so full of warmth, searched her face. He gave her a little tug; she had to balance a hand on his shoulder to avoid tumbling into him. "Dulcey…" She watched his lips as they spoke her name – how soft they looked. She was so close she could touch…

"Miss Dulcey!"

The kitchen door banged open.

Quickly she turned, stumbling a little as her foot bumped Matthew's knee. He put a steadying hand to the small of her back, his fingers warm through the fabric of her blouse.

Marshal Crown stared, silent and appraising. Fresh heat rose to Dulcey's face under that glittering, hazel-eyed gaze. "Yes – Marshal?" she stammered at him.

"Sorry to interrupt," Crown rumbled out, though his tone relayed anything but apology.

Matthew rose from his knees; their hands parted. Yet his features remained pleasant and unembarrassed, and a secretive sort of smile played out over his lips. His composure calmed Dulcey, and a little fluttering of delight worked through her. If Matthew wasn't afraid of the Marshal, then she wouldn't, either. And she shouldn't be feeling any sort of guilt. Matthew had been nothing but gentlemanly toward her – well, but for his opportunity to watch her. They were friends. Friends had fun, played about. There was nothing unseemly about what he – or she – had done.

"No interruption, Marshal," Matthew assured him. "In fact, you probably just saved me from eternal mortification."

Crown's hands went to his hips. "How's that?" he asked, heavy brows rising.

"I'm afraid I rather went on about Dulcey's great hand with baking," Matthew explained. "I was just about to burst into song when you came in. Good thing, too – I can't quite carry a tune." He nodded admiringly at the loaves sitting proudly across from him. "But I'd surely attempt a hymn in exchange for a slice of that fresh bread. I was hoping to persuade her to cut some up."

Dulcey saw Crown eye the loaves, knew that it was what'd brought him here. Then his gaze flicked over Dulcey and settled back onto Matthew. "Gotta agree with you there," he nodded. "Miss Dulcey's bread is the best I ever tasted."

"Marshal," Dulcey began. Crown turned an easy stare onto her, but she saw a muscle quiver in his cheek. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked.

He stiffened at her formal tone and his gaze ran back over the both of them. She saw a tightening of his jaw – was that some embarrassment tempering the light in his stare? "I'll be in my office another hour or so," he told her without any trace of his drawl. "Francis will be on rounds with me. MacGregor is taking first watch."

It had become his habit to tell her the evening schedule in order for them to coordinate locking up and turning out the lamps. Tonight, however, it seemed awkward. Dulcey glanced at Matthew beside her; perhaps the young man had something to do with that. But like all things relating to the Marshal, whatever he did or said was for a reason. A man like James Crown didn't wander about in his thoughts or waste energy on useless action. Even now, this conversation of sorts was intentional, though it might not have begun that way. Seeing her in here with another man on his knees, a young and attending young man, had likely surprised him.

He'd intruded and he knew it.

It probably galled him that he couldn't find any faults with Matthew. Dulcey smiled a little at that – maybe Crown's hat would fit better on his arrogant head for it. "I'm nearly done here," she announced. "Does Mr. Carter need anything?"

Crown shook his head. "He's fine – itching to leave, but no complaints about the bed or the meals."

"Well…" Matthew shifted, and they both swung looks onto him. He still appeared unaffected by the interruption. "I believe I'll catch some air before dark, work my leg a little before I turn in. Got an early day tomorrow – Mister Kilgallen's coming by to see the work on his building." He turned to Dulcey and bowed, reclaiming their earlier sense of fun. "Thank you, Miss Coopersmith, for your gracious company. I'm looking forward to partaking of that fine bread in the morning. Marshal," he nodded and ambled out, whistling a perky tune.

Dulcey stood there with Crown in a swirl of thickening silence. The Marshal hadn't moved, still had his hands on his hips, was still tensing his jaw and squinting. Dulcey reached up and wiped at her floury cheek, realized she probably looked a sight what with dough under her nails and her hair tied unbecomingly atop her head. The Marshal looked as neat as ever, what with his white shirt still clean and the light making his black hair shine and the badge secured to his vest twinkle. He was probably wondering why a man like Matthew Hastings would be interested in a plain thing like her. Then again, he probably thought Matthew was one of those – what did he call them_? Out of work jaspers looking for the wrong kind of fun. _Or _a whipped up cowboy looking for Saturday night_, or some other equally original expression. Always suspicious, in any event. Overly so, Dulcey realized.

"Coffee?" she asked to break the heavy atmosphere air, moving to the stove.

Crown lifted a cup from the row of them hanging on hooks by his head, held it out. She poured. He looked down at it, then back at her. Was that some sheepishness shadowing his gaze? Served him right – he could stand a little humility. "Thank you, Miss Dulcey," he rasped. "Good night…"

She squarely met his gaze. "Good night, Marshal."

He eyed the bread one last time and silently backed out.

Dulcey's traitorous heart gave a little tug as she watched him angle back toward his office. So there was a real man under all that tough skin. Maybe she could take him a slice of bread after she cleaned up – he did love it so. But then she firmed up her resolve. The time waiting in his office would do him good, remind him that he was only in charge of his half of this building – and had no control over her.

She started to clean up the warm room; placed cloths over the now cooling bread, gathered up used dishes and pans and put them in the sink, poured water, began to wash. It was quiet but for the sounds coming from the bar, the clink of glass, an occasional shout or whoop of laughter. Mac would pick up the chairs and sweep the floor for her once she went upstairs, all part of their nightly routine.

She dried all the dishes and put them away, wiped down the sideboard and the work table, tossed the cleaning cloths into a basket for the next day's washing, then took up a broom and swept. The room had overheated what with the warm day and all the baking she'd done. Her blouse and skirts clung to her, and her hair was hot and heavy on her head; she stripped off the tie holding it up and shook it out. Better. A walk would be a nice way to end her evening, but she would not ask the Marshal to accommodate such a trivial request. She peered out into the dining room. MacGregor was at the bar, Francis at a table writing furiously. Matthew was not in sight. Perhaps he was sitting out front – if he was, then she could sit with him for a bit. Let Crown came and get his own bread – he rather liked sneaking it, anyway.

She shot a look to the back door, Crown's warning coming back to her about keeping it locked and not using it after dark. But the sun had still to fully set. It would only take a moment to walk around to the front of the building. If Matthew was there she'd join him, and if not, she'd come back this way and go upstairs. She didn't want Crown to see her, and issue a shouted question and embarrass her in front of those men drinking at the bar. He might catch a glimpse of her passing by his window, but she'd be onto the boardwalk before he could say anything. And it was just halfway around the building – it wouldn't take but a few seconds.

She pulled off her apron, hung it up, and opened the back door. An obliging breeze met her, mild but fresh. Dulcey lifted her face to it, reached up and shook out her hair again. Even if Matthew wasn't out front she'd sit anyway. She wasn't yet tired, and a moment or two to reflect on the day would be in the cooling darkness would be better than her stuffy room.

She stepped across the threshold, and then turned to pull the latch behind her-

Something – someone – grabbed her.


	10. Chapter 10

X.

She went off balance, instinctively tried to draw back. "Stop – no…"

Two hands got around her, lifted her down off the step, turned her. Dulcey grabbed for purchase, found her fingers curled into corded arms of a man grinning before her. In the early gloom she saw the young face, the unshaven chin, a wave of fair hair – a stranger, no one that she recognized. There was a wide look of leering delight glimmering in his eyes.

"Miss Pretty," he purred – she smelled the liquor on him.

"Let me go!" she demanded loudly, pounding angrily at him. Stupid, drunken lout. Why hadn't she seen him?

He laughed over his shoulder. "See, I told you she's a fierce one. Oh, Miss Pretty," he moaned as her fists banged on his chest. "Don't keep doing that to me."

"Now, Tom, you save some," said another voice, high and excited. "You promised."

Fear slid over Dulcey's ire – two of them! Oh, no, no…

"Stop!" she cried with rising panic, but the one who had her started whirling her about in a tipsy, dizzying dance.

"I've waited days for you," he breathed heavily, tightening his hold on her. "You're so pretty. I told my buddy Randy the minute I laid eyes on you I had to have some of that pretty." He reached up, thrust rough fingers through her hair; the strands snagged on his ragged fingernails. "Pretty through and through…"

"Please, don't," Dulcey tried, her mind racing toward a solid thought – safety was just steps away. The Marshal was in his office around the corner. MacGregor and Francis, Febrizio and others were at the bar. Even now she heard a roar of laughter coming from that direction. She took a breath, readied her scream—

His hand came up under her jaw and squeezed, cutting off her air. "No-no," he told her in a singsong voice, fresh excitement dancing in his eyes. "Not here." He pinned her arms to her sides, crushing her to him. His lips scraped across her cheek, got to her mouth, slobbered, sucked. "Be nice now, nice and pretty…"

_Be nice now…_

Revulsion assaulted her, made her mind spin with cruel blackness from long ago_. No, no..._ She tried to thrust it back, but the old brutal memory shoved itself up into her throat, choking her with its sourness. _No, dear God, no, no!_ No, not again! The voice – his voice – from so long ago started inside her head, hissing, pleading…_No, no, Dulcey…be nice…be nice and I won't hurt you… _

She tried for a breath, could not find any air; his fingers were pressing hard, crushing her windpipe; his other hand slipped under the edge of her blouse, probing. Bile surged, hot and sour, up from her stomach and the sweat of fear broke out over her, made her shake. Again, it was happening again… _Pretty Dulcey, _crooned the shadowy past,_ I won't hurt you – just let me..._

His tongue licked her. "Just gotta taste me some…" he rasped, swinging her to the wall and pressing her back against it. He began to grind against her. His fist moved lower, began bunching her skirts, lifting…

_It won't hurt –oh, you're so soft, sweet…_

Dulcey retched but worked it back down. Behind them the other man was yipping and hooting; out of the corner of her eye she saw him dancing in the growing darkness, pale face and hands glowing, his boots scraping heavily across the dirt. The sound grated in her ears – _scritch-scritch-scritch – _eased her terror for a bare second_. _If she made some noise they'd hear her – she had but to alert them. _Screech like a horned devil,_ came Crown's voice into her head. A noise – something…Yes, yes… She got her hand moving, clawed what she could reach – his shirt back, the pockets of his pants – his gunbelt. Frantically Dulcey tugged at the heavy Colt, fingers roaming over the metal. She'd never handled a gun, but seeing Crown use his she knew there was a trigger-

He stiffened. "Not, you don't!" he hissed, grabbing for her hand even as his other fist rammed her cheek.

Air flowed down her throat – he'd let go. Dulcey's voice rolled up, spilled past her lips…

She screamed—

The gun went off.

* * *

><p>An unholy scream and then a shot, one right after another.<p>

Crown bolted up out of his chair and barreled out his back door, eyes already scanning the street, squinting as they adjusted to the deepening darkness. Instinct, however, drove him to the alley behind the Inn. He sprinted around the corner; saw a flash of pink, a swing of blonde hair – Dulcey.

His long reach swiveled the man watching even as his uppercut lifted the kid off his feet and sent him sprawling – his eyes rolled before he hit the dirt. Crown recognized him despite the gloom – the lurker from the bar, and the other one was his cocky friend. The snake had pinned Dulcey to the wall and was working suggestively over her. In one stride, Crown grabbed the other one. Enraged, his grip was colossal. He ripped the man bodily away from Dulcey, ducked flailing arms and legs, saw the glint of metal. He shifted smoothly to the upside of the girl and slapped his own leather.

The shot drove the younger man to with his knees with a cry. Crown dove in and tore the gun from the bleeding fingers, smashed the face hard; bones broke and blood spewed. He tossed the spent attacker to one side; the boy fell into a heap beside his motionless partner.

Quickly Crown whirled, shoving level breaths into his lungs, his gaze immediately seeking out Dulcey. She was just beyond him, frozen to the wall and gasping with sobs, her eyes shimmering darkly against the sallow skin of her face. Her dress was a wrinkled mess; the edge of her collar had slipped, revealing the outline of her collarbone. Crown's gut clenched – just what had the liquored-up bastard done? Had he…? _No, God no, please… _

He shoved the kid's Colt into his waistband and softly approached. "Miss Dulcey…"

She was staring unseeing, her shoulders – all of her – quaking hard. Crown reached out, tenderly touched her wrist. "Miss Dulcey?"

She exploded, her body twisting, a harsh cry tearing from her throat. Her fists banged down on his shoulder, went for his face. "No! No, no…!"

"It's me, Jim," he called to her. "Miss Dulcey, it's all right…" He took her arm, tried not to grip hard and advance her panic. Still she fought him, strong in her fear. "Miss Dulcey!"

Her knuckles connected with his jaw, but he pulled back before the blow could cause any real damage. He got her by the upper arms, tried to catch her gaze but her hair had swung across her cheeks and was sticking to her slicked skin. "Miss Dulcey, stop!" he half-shouted. "Stop, it's me. It's Jim Crown – Marshal Crown!"

She rocked to a halt – maybe she recognized the glitter of his badge in the shaft of amber lamplight crossing over them, or maybe she knew the sound of his voice. He certainly had shouted a lot in the past few weeks, even at her upon occasion. But whatever it was, she suddenly seemed to dry up and go still. Crown eased his grip but did not let go, felt the sticky heat of her skin under his hands, the warmth of her breaths fanning across his cheek, was afraid he'd break a bone because she was so taut in his grasp.

"It's all right now," he told her, wishing she'd ease enough so he could get his arms around her fully, give her more comfort. "It's all right, Miss Dulcey."

She took a breath, tipped her head to look up at him. Some of the tangle that was her hair fell away from her face and he saw her gaze, not quite so riled now. Her lips moved. "M – Marshal…?" she quavered.

He nodded. "Are you hurt?" he demanded. "Did he…?"

"I – I…" She swallowed hard and he saw it, a flare of old fear that swept her features, shadowed her gaze and thinned her lips, and he knew-

She'd been hurt before, like this. "Dulcey…" he got out gently, forgetting the formality. His heart strained painfully against his breastbone. Someone had hurt her, touched her, harmed her. "Talk to me now…" he urged, drawing some strands of hair away from her face.

"I'm – I'm…" she stammered and quickly turned her head aside, began to choke.

The scrape on her cheek glowered at him, freshening his rage. "MacGregor!" Crown shouted through the din of laughter rolling out from the doorway. "Francis!" Dulcey began to heave, harsh but dry. "Did he hurt you?" he asked her as worry swooped through his gut. _Did he place his filthy hands anywhere-? Tell me and I'll rip off this badge and…_

"He – he…no," Dulcey gasped, shaking her head and swallowing hard.

"What – what did he do?" Crown pressed, because the pain he'd seen in her eyes was drilling deeply down into him without cease and made him fear he'd been _too late_...

"He didn't – no, he just…" She withdrew a hand from him and wiped it across her lips, then swayed.

He got an arm around her, guided her to the bench by the doorway and eased her down onto it, then sat hard beside her. It was a long moment while he waited to make sure she would stay upright, the top of her head grazing his cheek as she took deep breaths and tried to steady herself. Laughter rang out from the bar again. Movement caught Crown's eye – one of the attackers was trying to get up.

"Stay right here-" he started.

"No!" Dulcey's fingers snagged his vest, curled in tight.

He worked it away, gave it a comforting pat. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured her. "Stay right here for a minute, all right? Mac!" he roared, and finally saw his chief deputy coming on at a run, Francis close behind. Crown stepped back to the fallen, bleeding man, hauled on an arm. "I warned you, Mister. Now get up!"

The man moaned, scraped at the dirt. Crown rattled him onto his feet. He wanted to shove his knee deep between this low-lying bug's legs, take his .44 and shoot the very spot. Years ago he would've done it, but now the badge held him back. But it could not quell the anger roiling through him. Attacking a woman – attacking Dulcey.

Trying to rape her.

All right outside his door. He should've paid more attention – something, anything. Dammit to hell!

MacGregor and Francis had made it through the door, brought themselves up short at the sight. "What the devil?" thundered Mac, jumping forward.

"Straight to a cell," Jim told him, shoving the kid's gun at him. Then he gestured to the one beyond. "Francis, wake him up and get him inside. Then get the doc."

"What's the charge?" Mac asked him. "Oh, stop crying you drunkard – you got what you deserved. Jim?"

"Assault," Crown gritted out around a rigid jaw. He well knew the full legal term for the crime, but he refused to say it with Dulcey hovering on the bench there.

Mac frowned as his gaze followed. "Oh, no! Dear lass…Jim…?"

"She's all right, just scared_…_"_ I think…_ "Get them inside, would you? Use my door."

He waited until the area was clear, then stepped back up to Dulcey, touched her arm, hated it when she flinched hard. "Marshal…" she got out, eyes locking instantly onto him. She rose under his grasp, trembling, but let him lead her inside.

Crown guided her into the warm, lit room, settled her into a chair, shut both doors to give them some privacy. He grabbed a towel, wet it, kicked a chair around and sat before her. Carefully he touched the towel to her scraped cheek. Dulcey winced and drew back, but he took her hand to still her. She immediately quieted, her fingers curling fast around his, hanging on.

"It's not bad," he told her as he cleaned the graze. His voice seemed to echo about the room. Her silence made him uncommonly nervous. _He didn't do it, _he reminded himself. _He didn't get his hands…_ "You all right?" he asked to work away the jumpiness threatening him.

"I didn't know he was there," Dulcey replied in a tiny voice. The skin at the base of her throat and over her exposed collarbone was red and roughened. Her hair was a mass of blonde tangles. "I didn't know…"

"It's okay," he soothed, and managed a lopsided smile at her. "You gave a good scream."

"I opened the door – I shouldn't have…" She looked up at him, wholly dismayed. Fresh tears spiked her lashes.

"Don't fret now," he counseled softly, tossing the towel onto the counter. He couldn't be upset with her, not when she was looking so scared. He should've kept a better eye on those two jackals. Again it came to him – she'd been harmed before… "I'll take you to your room, all right?" He took both her hands – they were so small in his.

"Oh, but your rounds," she quickly protested.

Crazy girl, he thought, worried about his routine at a time like this. "You first," he told her.

She gave no resistance but hung onto his hand, fingers cold and clammy in his warmer grasp. He escorted her through the dining room, shielding her from the small group gathered at the bar, quelling their curious stares with a glare of his own. Except that of Matthew Hastings; the young man was stepping forward. "Miss Coopersmith?"

Defensiveness arose hard within him, settled close to his heart. "Not now," Crown ground out as Dulcey pressed closer to him. _But we're going to have a talk, boy, _he silently told the other man. He knew he'd interrupted them earlier in the kitchen, but restraint be damned – he'd sleep better once he found out exactly what Matthew Hastings was after. He herded Dulcey up the stairs, feeling the younger man's eyes on their backs as they turned the corner out of sight.

He got the key from her, unlocked the door, lit the lamp and turned it up full, her hand clutch onto his sleeve the whole while. His gaze sought out all the corners, taking note of the flowery bedding, pretty chairs, and lacy dresser scarves. And a faint fragrance – hers. "All secure," he assured her, pressing the key into her palm.

"Thank you…" she murmured.

"Miss Dulcey..."

It was on his tongue to ask her, but his mind quickly told him it wasn't his business. Yet she looked up at him with those pretty blue eyes shadowed with memory, and that pink mouth all tight and his heart kicked within his chest. _Don't you know how pretty you are? Don't you know how they all want you? _He wished he could smoothen her hair, hold her, hug her…

Warning prodded him, reminding him of the badge he wore and the limitations it imposed. He could not lead her on, nor fuel any of the loose notions in his own head. "Lock the door behind you, all right?"

"Yes," Dulcey nodded. "Yes, I will. I – thank you…"

He waited until he heard the sound of the tumblers clicking into place behind him—

Then stood powerless listening as her muffled sobs came from behind the locked door. With that ringing in his ears, and a weight inside him like he'd just swallowed a stone, he made his way back downstairs.

He waved off Mac's and Francis' anxious gazes, accepted the drink Febrizio held out to him, and allowed a few more moments to upbraid himself for not turning those two cowboys out of town sooner. By the time Febrizio had poured a second round, his emotion was ebbing and his cool head returning. Then he spotted Hastings coming through the doors.

"Can I speak with you a minute, Mr. Hastings?" he called.

Hastings got his foot off the stair and turned. His face was easy, perhaps too carefully so. "Yes, Marshal?"

Crown beckoned with his finger and the younger man obligingly followed him to his office. He shut the door behind them, remained standing. "Want to talk to you," Crown began, "about Miss Coopersmith."

"Miss Dulcey?" Hastings echoed. "Is she all right?"

_Terrified…_ Crown managed a nod. "Thought I might ask you," he said evenly, "what your intentions might be towards her."

The boy's attitude did not change – Crown sense he was trying hard to hold back. His stance was centered on his feet, but he was stiff in the shoulders. He looked non-threatening, but Crown remembered the unexpected strength when he'd grabbed him the other day. Still he wore no gun – at least none that was visible.

"Marshal, I hope I haven't-"

"She's a nice young lady," Crown interrupted. "She hasn't been out here too long – doesn't know the way of things. Inexperienced, you could say."

"Yes, sir."

"Doesn't always see danger before it happens."

"Yes, sir, I understand." Hastings took a step forward. Crown reflexively eased back, let his hand rest on the butt of his .44 Hastings' gaze went to it for the barest second. "I surely appreciate Miss Dulcey's company, Marshal," the boy continued. "She's very kind."

"She is," Crown agreed. "You planning on staying in Cimarron?"

"This is a nice town," Hastings shrugged, then nodded. "Plenty of work for two carpenters, it looks like. At least for now. Folks need carpenters."

"They do," Crown said. "Now, as for Miss Dulcey…"

"If I can ask, Marshal," Hastings gave a pause, but Crown didn't think he was hesitant in the least. "Miss Dulcey – well, she's not already spoken for, is she? I didn't think…" His smile came on, broad, almost wolfish. "She surely is pretty, sir."

"Just so we understand," Crown put out, feeling ugly all over again, "There'll be no disrespect shown to her. I'll give to any man what I gave to those two alley dogs tonight for even looking the wrong way at her. You got that?"

Hastings gave a simple nod and stuffed his smile behind his teeth, though Crown still felt he was gleeful about something. "I do understand, Marshal. Thank you for explaining. Good-night to you, sir."

Crown only nodded, and watched him leave, limping slightly, his manner ever-calm. Annoyed with him – and himself – Crown tossed his rear into his new office chair and fumed silently.

_You'll come to me, Crown. On my terms, not yours. There won't be any dark alleys, like you're thinking. Daylight, Crown. Hot daylight so you can watch yourself die. You'll come to me…_


	11. Chapter 11

XI.

"Well, they're healing," announced Kihlgren, entering Crown's office from the cell area. "Got a good taste of your anger, I must say. You've a mighty hard fist, Marshal."

Crown grunted with little self-reproach and stood up to stretch. There was a flower in a crystal vase on his desk – again. He was the Marshal of the whole Cimarron Strip and he had a flower on his desk. He gave it a withering stare but the bloom did not wilt. Dulcey – had she heard when he told her not to intrude on his workspace? But he only set it on the far corner, because the memory of the other night episode still pushed high feeling through him, even after two full days. Every time Dulcey passed by he was reminded of his gut-wrenching fear and accompanying rage. And of the way his heart had twisted at the sound of her tears coming from her room. So he would not call her out on the flower vase. Besides, he sensed it was a symbol of her gratitude, and how could he deride her for that? And living like they were all together under the Inn's roof, there was only so much privacy they could attain.

As for those two attackers, well, he held little pity for either of them. Tom Wallace was headed for the penitentiary with a broken nose, two resulting black eyes, and a damaged right hand. His friend was going to enjoy four-by-four living for a while with a very sore jaw. Fort Smith had already been contacted for a hearing and Judge Parker was not one to pity assailants who harmed women. They deserved whatever Crown had already given them, and what the judge would further hand them.

His back door rattled open and MacGregor loped through carrying a long, paper-wrapped item. "It's here, Jim Crown. Shall I unwrap it, or you do want the honors?" But he tore the paper away before Crown could issue a reply. A new flag rolled into his hands.

"Just right," Crown nodded with a smile. Judge Quayle could find no fault with his court now. He pointed. "Stand it up over there."

"Marshal…" His back door re-opened to admit Francis Wilde. "Got a couple more places with stuff missing – the thief is awfully sneaky…"

"Marshal?" Dulcey rapped lightly on the sill of his connecting door.

"This place is a regular depot," Kihlgren grunted to Crown, watching MacGregor fit the flag into the stand.

"Tell the merchants to watch their customers," Crown told Francis. "And give me a full list of what's missing. Miss Dulcey," he smiled and approached, glad to see her.

Though she'd kept to herself these past two days she hadn't been hidden. Just the opposite – she'd flung herself into working the Wayfarer's with a new zeal, scrubbing and cleaning what wasn't dirty, calling on MacGregor and Francis to help her re-arrange the dining room, poring over items that had been piled into storage, cooking and baking until Crown thought he'd bust from sampling the culinary results. Working off some of her fear, he guessed. Maybe even reconsidering her stay here.

She stood at his doorway now, pretty as ever in a pink and white dress he hadn't seen before, her hair loose and shining. The scrape on her cheek was still red but healing. Yet there was a shadow still lurking in her eyes, and a new wariness had come over her. His deputies had also noticed and were now more vigilant of her whereabouts, reporting to him without his asking. The town was already talking about the Marshal's results, creating a new wind of regard for him. It would settle down in time, Crown knew. But a little show of power would never hurt. As for Dulcey…

"I'm going to bring Seth his lunch," she now told him and glanced behind her. "Matthew said he'd accompany me." Her chin rose a little at that, as if expecting him to object.

He wanted to, but did not. He knew he'd completely interrupted them in the kitchen the other night, wasn't so stupid to realize that he'd poked his nose into something that was none of his business. And he'd further risked their relationship by talking to Hastings, though he didn't think the younger man had revealed that to her – at least not yet. The boy, though troubling to Crown's own thoughts, was still being ever-polite. And if the young man was going to stay in Cimarron and challenge old man Gibson with carpentry work, then he'd likely vie for more of Dulcey's attention, as well. Crown supposed that's what he really wanted for the girl – someone to take care of her. Though he wasn't convinced Matthew Hastings was the man for the job. Even when he took off his badge, he could not find himself truly liking the boy. There was just something about him, like he was trying too hard to be nice. It bothered Crown, no matter from which side he examined it. _I sound like a fired-up old pappy, _he chided himself, glancing at the rack where his shotgun reposed, _ready to put a load of double-aught to his backside._

Hastings, for his part, was standing easily behind Dulcey. Too easy. Now he smiled, a slippery lift of his lips that added some mirth to his gaze. _Like he's laughing at me…_

"Thanks for letting me know," he said to Dulcey in a tone he managed to keep neutral.

She gave him a grateful smile. "Oh…" she said then reached into her dress pocket and withdrew two folded sheets. After a moment to bite her lip she handed them to him. "My deposition," she said, swallowing hard.

He took the papers from her freshly trembling grasp and nodded, knowing that it had been difficult for her to write. He wondered again what exactly had happened to her back in Providence, and whether whoever had done it had been caught. And wondered if that incident had helped to push her westward – and whether this new one would make her return.

She quickly withdrew, picked up a covered basket on a nearby table, linked arms with Hastings and left. Crown didn't realize he was frowning after them until Mac's voice came into his ear. "Would you like me to keep an eye on them for you, Marshal?"

He wanted to say yes but he didn't – she could've asked any of them to take her but had chosen Hastings. Crown sensed that she'd renewed her determination to fight for her place out here. He couldn't help but respect her for it.

He released his brow with a sigh. "Give those two boys their feed," he directed, jerking a thumb toward the cells. "Francis…? Now just what are you doing?" he asked, seeing Wilde seated in a corner, a pencil poised over small pad balanced on his lap

"Writing, o'course," Mac snorted. "You gave him something right smart to work with – 'Marshal Crown, deadly fisted law of the Cimarron,' or some such rot."

"That shows what you don't know," Francis retorted, rising. He ripped the paper from his pad and gave it to Crown. "Here – it's a list of everything that's been stolen from the merchants." He shrugged. "The other – stuff – I'll do later…when I'm off duty."

"Well, since you're still on duty, you can help me feed the prisoners," Mac told him, slinging a long arm around his shoulders and escorting him out to the dining room.

Crown sighed – he was going to have to talk to young Wilde about this "Legend of Cimarron" notion of his. "How about you, Doc?" he asked the physician who'd joined him at the door. "Want something to eat before you go?"

"Thank you, no." Kihlgren shook his head, but kept staring out into the dining room. "I've got a wife waiting for me, though God knows I've eaten enough dried out meals to make her give up on me ever being on time."

Crown peered out again, saw nothing amiss. Mac and Francis were disappearing into the kitchen, Dulcey and Hastings were gone. The bar was quiet. A few lunch patrons were working into seats…his mind backed up-

Hastings…

"Something about that boy," Kihlgren mused softly.

Crown nodded, frustration tightening the back of his neck. He reached up to scratch at it, but that only made it worse.

The trip to Hardesty last week had turned up nothing new. Few had noticed the young stranger arrive in town. He'd ridden in on a horse with no brand but of good stock. Had stopped at the livery and found a room, eaten a meal. By the next morning the bank had been blown open and he'd been shot, presumably by the robber Conroy. Was taken to the boarding house, and hadn't uttered any more than his name and the description of the robber he saw. That was it until Kihlgren had arrived to treat him. The sheriff there had kept a deputy on protective watch but the boy had remained bleeding in bed all the while. Crown had even wired the other towns in his district with Hastings' description but all the replies were negative. No one had seen the kid before this. He'd told the sheriff he'd come in from Texas looking for work, had a hammer and a few minor belongings in his saddle bags. Nothing else – nothing…

Then why did all this nothing seems like a big something?

Crown'd already checked every wanted poster he had looking for a match to the boy, but there was nothing. Nothing in any of the area papers, either; he'd sent Francis to comb through them. And Hastings didn't look like he could raise much of a hand against anything. He hadn't smoked, hadn't taken up any liquor at any saloon. Hadn't even strayed to Pony Jane's looking for a girl – well, Crown knew the reason for that. He wore no gun, at least that was visible. Hadn't bought anything at any store, hadn't rented a rig or a horse, though he had inquired over a buggy. Had asked over that stoved-in building MacGregor had blown apart, and Jack Kilgallen had hired him to fix it up. Spent most days working over there – or at least there'd been hammering coming from the place. As for the buggy, he probably wanted to take Dulcey for a ride – that would be the next step in his courtship of her…

The most he could be accused of was being too polite. And that was no crime, though in some ways, Crown wished it was.

"Anybody see that robber shoot Hastings?" Kihlgren now asked him.

Crown shrugged. "Too much confusion. When the dust cleared the boy was lying in the street with a bullet in his leg and Conroy was blazing a trail for the Outlet. Conroy claims he never saw him."

"Must be it then," Kihlgren muttered, though not convincingly.

"Must be what?" Crown prompted. The feeling at his neck dropped lower, spread an ache between his shoulder blades.

"The confusion and all," said Kihlgren. "Conroy must not have seen Hastings…maybe he was too close."

"Doc…" Crown swung around to eye him. "What's eating at your mind?"

"The bullet wound," Kihlgren complained back. "Fired from a gun at close range. But the angle seems – off."

"Explain that," Crown directed, perching on the end of his desk. He rolled his shoulders, but that only drove the ache down along his spine.

"Here, do you mind?" Kihlgren reached over and deftly plucked the .44 from where it nestled in the holster on Crown's right hip.

"Be careful, Doc!" Crown warned, swiftly dancing sideways off the desk.

"Look…" Kihlgren held the gun pointed at Crown's left leg – with all fingers thankfully on the handle. "Whether you're running or riding, if you're shooting at a man's leg the angle is front to back – or across."

"Not if you catch him in stride." Cautiously Crown stepped forward – Kihlgren tracked his movement with the gun barrel.

"All right, I grant you that," Kihlgren nodded. "You could catch him back to front." He looked up, moustaches quivering. "But not down."

"Come again?"

"The angle of the bullet I pulled out of Hastings was down the calf. Here on the inside." The doctor took the .44 and began to draw a line with the long barrel down Crown's leg.

Crown jumped again, and this time pulled it away from him. "For my peace of mind," he explained, securely holstering it.

Unoffended, Kihlgren used his finger instead, traced it down Crown's leg. "Inside and down, don't you see? Conroy would've had to be nearly on top of him to manage a shot like that. Queer angle – that's what keeps bothering me. Really only one way to manage it…"

Crown saw it, too. With enough perturbation to dry up the spit in his mouth. "By his own hand," he uttered roughly.

Kihlgren's chin lifted; his eyes bored into Crown's. "I'd agree with that."

Crown flinched as the muscles in his lower back twisted. "Faked it – shot himself…" He whirled back to the doctor. "But why?"

"Glory?" Kihlgren guessed.

Crown drew himself up. "That's lying – perjury."

"Grudge against Conroy?" Kihlgren shrugged.

"Could be…"

Couldn't be, he knew it couldn't be. If Conroy said anything close to the truth, it had to be about not knowing Hastings. Crown's mind started to rifle through ideas and options, keeping fragments and discarding others.

"He's been a quiet fellow hasn't he – Hastings…?" Kihlgren asked him, though it was more of a statement than a question.

"Too quiet," Crown agreed.

Too neat, just too neat. Convenient witness and victim. Model figure of a man. Clean, polite, helpful, attentive. Crown did not know him, was sure he didn't know the name. But something about the man…His mind backed up – attentive. Yes, too attentive…to Dulcey, certainly. But trying too hard. Hastings – an alias…

Why use Conroy? Hastings had to know him, or know of him. Getting shot – or doing it to himself – would bring him right into Cimarron, right into Crown's midst, as if he wanted to be noticed. And yet, he was still hiding something. He was trying too hard to cover up something…

_Me – he wants me…_

It popped out and danced before him. He snatched it up and sucked it down – yes, that was it.

Not Dulcey – he was just using her to get close, keep himself out from under suspicion. He had a yen for a U.S. Marshal – specifically, Jim Crown.

_He knows me – knows where I've been…_

He mentally re-traced his route over the years – El Paso, Abilene, Washington, then here. His relocation…new town, strangers, warring farmers and cattlemen. A far flung Territory rife with lawlessness and lots of distraction that'd allow a vengeful man, if playing it carefully, to slip in all but unnoticed, get himself ready to kill…

He had a grudge of some kind, then. He could've sat in the rocks littering the Strip, picked off Crown anytime. Waited for a glimpse of sunlight on badge or hatband – Crown wasn't afraid to be seen. But he hadn't done it that way.

Crown heard paper crinkle, found Francis' list curling in his grasp, read it for the first time _rope, kerosene, chain, matches, knife…_

Supplies – no, weapons. He wanted to do it up close, to ensure blood would run and bones would break. Had spent days in town, waiting while Crown fussed over this and that, getting close – using Dulcey as the lure. Put himself right into the middle of this place, watched everything, knew exactly how impressionable Dulcey was, understood that she was watched over. And had gotten close – too close…

"El Paso or Abilene," he said softly to himself. Had to be. He hadn't given anyone a reason to go so hard against him before that. It was the badge, and what he had to do in the name of the law. Some took it personal – too personal.

Alarm began to clamor in him, the one he never ignored. He dropped the list onto his desk and took up his hat. "Think I'll have a talk with Hastings," he told Kihlgren. "Get a Winchester and come with me," he said to Francis, who was emerging from the kitchen with MacGregor. Questioning filled the younger man's eyes but he silently stacked the lunch tray he was carrying on top of the one in MacGregor's hands and sprinted to Crown's office.

"It might be better if I take on whatever you need," Mac warned. "He's no hand with a gun."

"He'll be fine, just what I need," Crown assured him. Francis would not appear as a threat to Hastings, but could shoot a Winchester well enough. That was the edge Crown needed at this point, especially if they had to split up to find the man. "I need you back here. If for some reason Francis returns with Matthew Hastings, then you lock him up."

"Hastings? What for?"

"Because I said so," Crown shot back. "I'll tell you more once he's behind bars," he amended with some unsaid apology, and was glad when his new chief deputy accepted the short explanation without complaint. "And Mac," he continued, as Francis quickly rejoined him. "You keep Miss Dulcey Coopersmith out of harm's way, all right? On my orders, she stays away from my office and the cells."

The older man's nod was firm. "Aye, Marshal, I understand."

"I don't understand," Francis said as they swung out into the street. "What's going on?"

Crown was walking fast, his back still thrumming with spasms. "Matthew Hastings – I need to talk to him. But first I have to find him."

"I saw him leave with Dulcey." Francis hopped a little to get his step in line with Crown's.

"If they're still together when we find them, then you escort her back to the Inn, you understand? I don't want them together." _I don't want him to hurt her because of what he has against me._ "I'll explain later," he added curtly, cutting off the words shooting past the other man's lips.

"Has he done something?" Francis managed to ask.

"That's what I plan to find out," Crown announced. 

* * *

><p>"Matthew? Is everything all right?"<p>

_He knows something. He suspects. He'll come. Yes, yes…I'm ready…_

Dulcey slowed her step – he hadn't heard her. "Matthew?" she tried again, with a little trip of worry making her shiver. She glanced about but the area was quiet. Perhaps she should've asked MacGregor to accompany her to the livery instead. Matthew wasn't acting like himself. Or maybe it was her newfound awareness that had her imagining things? Because it felt – suspicious. There was also some new tension between him and the Marshal, though most of it came from Crown's side; the man seemed to find a criminal side to almost everyone. Matthew, however, appeared unconcerned – until now.

_I'm ready, Luke – this is for you – finally, finally…_

Dulcey touched his arm; he started, came to a stop. "I'm sorry, what?"

_Stay calm, don't make any mistakes…_

"Are you all right?" Dulcey asked again. "You had such a look on your face…"

He changed it to a smile, relieving her a little bit. "Miss Dulcey, I do apologize. Here you asked me to escort you and I'm doing nothing but daydreaming." He clasped her arm for a moment. "Forgive me? Please?"

_He'll follow – he thinks I'm taking her…_

"Of course," Dulcey nodded, her fear easing a little. It was all right – he'd been only thinking. Of what she could hardly guess. Perhaps his work at the demolished building. Or of his past. Or…

Or maybe of him and her, the two of them. She felt herself blush a little at that. He did like her; at least she thought he did. Perhaps, she thought…after all, she was a woman grown, heading for nineteen years old. She turned, the basket in her hands lightly bumping him. "You've become a good friend, Matthew."

_Just you and me, Crown – the two of us…you'll come to me…_

"Cimarron wouldn't have been such a pleasure if you hadn't been here," Matthew told her.

She leaned in, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, turned pink and stepped away, calling for Seth.

_Now. Crown – are you ready to die?_


	12. Chapter 12

XII.

She was coming back along the boardwalk – alone.

"Miss Dulcey!" Crown hailed and trotted quickly to her, his back protesting with each step. "I thought Matthew was with you."

"Oh, he was," Dulcey nodded. "He stayed behind to chat with Seth – something about horses. I told him I'd be fine walking back." She gestured to the foot traffic flowing around them. "I know everyone on this side of the street so I felt safe enough…"

Crown nodded, but his gaze was already moving toward the livery. _Talking about horses._ The alarm in him edged upward. But he smiled down at the girl, kept his features even. "You head straight back to the Inn, Miss Dulcey. Please," he added more softly, seeing the protest appear on her lips. His hand found hers and squeezed it. "It's important," he told her, capturing that blue gaze of hers. "You'll be all right the rest of the way? I have something to ask Matthew."

She nodded but frowned, and caught her lip between her teeth. "Marshal, you're not…? Well, I know he's been nice to me…"

"It's your affair," he told her. _But it's going to be ending soon._ She'd be upset at that, at the way Hastings had put himself close to her in a way she did not expect. And upset at him for what he was going to do… He touched the brim of his hat – he couldn't wait any longer. "Pardon, Miss Dulcey. I need to attend to this business."

She glanced behind her and saw the questions forming in her gaze, knew her mind was working to put it together. And saw something else, too; she suspected. It raked him.

"Be careful," she said, worry puckering her brow. "He just – well…he seems…"

He released her hand. "Go on – straight back to the Inn. He might've had time to leave Seth's," he told Francis once she was out of earshot and taking a relieved breath when she stepped through the Inn's doors. "We need to be careful."

"I can try the old sheriff's office," Francis suggested. "That's where he's been most afternoons."

Crown paused, considering. If Hastings was truly weaponless then there'd be no issue taking him, not with a gun trained on him, and in front of others. "All right," he nodded. "If you find him you just tell him I want to talk to him. You take him to my office and let Mac lock him up, you hear? You keep a good eye on him. And Francis," Crown gave his deputy a strong eye. "If he tries to run you stop him, got it?"

"Got it," Francis nodded, if a little nervously.

They parted. Crown quickly moved off. He couldn't let the boy to get away – he'd jail him on something, anything, but get him behind bars until he found out just exactly who he was. March him all the way back to Texas if he had to.

There were no voices at the edge of the livery. Crown stepped in quietly, heard no movements other than the shift of horses in stalls as they dozed. It was too blessed quiet. He pulled the .44, the grip perfectly familiar to his palm, set it to half-cock, eased forward on silent steps. Seth – where was he? He found the man's stool at the back door, the basket Dulcey had been carrying on the floor beside it – the meal was eaten. But there were no signs of the man – or anyone else. Crown moved back out into the sunshine, crossed the space to the second smaller barn at the back where the livery owner kept his hay and feed and extra tack, casting a fast but thorough glance across the corral – nothing there but one bay and one spotted mare dozing in the heat of the sun.

He paused at the half-open door to this barn, eased in, softly cursing the readjustment to his eyesight. There – dammit!

A set of feet protruded from the end of an empty stall – Crown neared, refrained from speaking, used his peripheral vision to keep track of any moment around him, ears listening behind him. Nothing. He stepped noiselessly forward. It was Seth. Crown stared; the other man was—

Sleeping. Even as Crown watched the hostler snorted lightly, turned himself over. Crown sighed, holstered his gun, and prodded the man.

"Hey…oh, Marshal." Seth rolled up, wiped at his face and his bald head. "Rocky okay? I just checked him…"

"He's fine." Crown straightened. "Where's the boy that came in here with Dulcey?"

"Who?" Seth shrugged himself, scratched.

"The boy with Dulcey," Crown patiently repeated. "Dulcey said he was talking to you."

"Oh, him," Seth grunted. He began limping back toward the corral. "He asked about a horse, did I have any to sell. Then he asked me did I need anything needed mending, fence, stalls. Offered himself for the job. Nice boy, polite. Miss Dulcey sure seemed to like him…"

"Where'd he go?"

"Go? Not sure." Seth stepped back into the livery and immediately began counting muzzles. "Talked on for a few minutes about his working over at Kilgallen's building while I ate and then he left."

No horses gone and Dulcey was alone. Wasn't likely he'd run out on foot, except maybe to hide. But a man with that much bloodlust in him would not walk away from a kill. No, he was still in town. Maybe Francis had found him. Crown took his leave of Seth, crossed the wide avenue, aware that traffic had thinned; most folks were partaking of the noon meal. Kilgallen's block was mostly empty anyway, due to the ruined conditions of the buildings grouped there. MacGregor's blast had not only taken out the sheriff's office, but had damaged the walls of the businesses on either side. Crown moved noiselessly up to the doorway, and then changed his mind. In this situation he'd feel a lot better coming in the back door rather than striding through the front.

He swung around to the rear, saw a load of fresh lumber piled beside a haphazard stack of splintered boards, a few sawhorses, a couple cans of nails, and a toolbox overflowing with implements. Crown stepped carefully around tumbled bricks and broken glass, trying to remember the arrangement of the former sheriff's office; his previous examination had only been a cursory one as he'd picked over the salvageable contents. All he could recall were blown walls, fallen brick, the cells with bars listing, both the front and rear doors torn off.

There were no sounds – no hammering, no sawing, no voices. Maybe Francis had already found Hastings and marched him back to the Inn. Still, long experience made him ever-cautious. He eased his .44 into his hand once more, crept forward, cursing the glare of the sun overhead. Held his breath, paused to listen again. Nothing, not even any breeze. Crown's back pulled up tight; sweat ran under his shirt, front and back, worked around his collar, slipped past his temples. He reached the back entrance, grateful for the thin shade afforded by the roof overhang. Flattened himself against the broken wall, tore his hat from his head, carefully peered inside, saw empty space, iron bars, slats of sunlight skimming across the floor. And something else…

"Francis?" he called in a low voice.

The rustle of clothing. "In here," croaked a voice from within. "Marshal…"

A blur of movement dropped into the edge of his vision, close – too close. Crown whirled, readied a shot-

Something struck him, vicious; he felt his cheek split over the bone. He staggered back as the pain shot into his brain, white and hot; it cut off his vision, deadened his nerves. The .44 fell from his grasp. He began to topple, clawed to maintain consciousness, pull himself back away from any more blows, but another struck him in the ribs, propelled him to one side. He felt himself slide along the dirt; tried to push himself upright, but his head was exploding and he couldn't find his way. He shoved his knees up under him, rolled over. He didn't know if he made it upright – a great wave of black pain swept him and pushed him down into nothingness.


	13. Chapter 13

XIII.

"_Crown…"_

The voice, harsh and grating, weaved through his brain and brought him up from the murkiness enveloping him. He tried to respond to it but his tongue was heavy in his mouth, and his throat was closed over. He rattled himself, cursed the heaviness of his head crammed down onto his neck. His neck…something was choking him, cutting off what little air he could find. He tried to flex but his limbs only weakly responded – they were caught fast against poles, no bars…

"_Crown – wake up, damn you! You're not hurt, not by far…Crown!"_

Something struck his outstretched ribcage, caved him inward as the pain flowed; his head bounced, his brain hazy and hurting. He lost air again, scrabbled to pull himself up on boots seemingly stuck to the floor.

"Come on, Crown, wake up." The tone increased in pitch, close to his ear. "Wake up!"

The water caught him full in the face, slapped past his teeth, barreled down his throat, worked up his nose. Crown coughed, spluttered, got himself up, sucked in a watery breath, blinked furiously. Slowly his vision arrived, awakening the rest of his senses along the way. His memory bounced in – he'd been searching for Hastings, left the livery, made it to the old sheriff's office…

His cheek throbbed hot and hard over the bone. There was a rope coiled around his neck; he felt the noose knot snug against his left ear all but strangling him already. Crown rolled his head, shoved his heels against the floor, tried to straighten. Slowly he raised his gaze, saw that the line was slung over a sturdy beam, exposed by a jagged hole in the ceiling. It was just high enough to choke him if he slipped down or sideways.

It was the sheriff's office, all right. A glance to either side told him that he was tied to a section of the cells. His wrists were tightly bound to a cross bar, half-outstretched and just short of shoulder height; ankles, too, though one seemed looser than the other. Crown chanced a look down, had to squint; the rope did sag, with one loop dropping toward his heel. His arms were already starting to tingle from lack of circulation. Damn, just how long had he been out?

"Marshal…" came a garbled voice.

Francis was to his right, arms and legs lashed around the lower section cell bars that left him in a crouch. He was gagged and hatless, but seemed otherwise unharmed, though his blue eyes held a full measure of worry. Crown managed a nod at him.

"Where is…?" he began but a hand wound into his hair and yanked his head around.

Matthew Hastings' face leered close to his. "It's time, Crown. You're going to die."

"All right," Crown said to the younger man swaying before him. He pulled himself back up to ease the coil around his neck, held in his grimace though his shoulders were aching with strain. He could not show any weakness; already it was easy enough to sense the kid's instability. He had to keep Hastings' attention on him and not Francis, lest he be hurt.

"How do you like it, Crown?" Hastings hissed, letting go of him. "How do you like knowing you're going to die and I'm going to do it?"

Crown swallowed back a wave of nausea, fought for focus. "Just who did I gun down to make you so full of hate?" He squinted through the pounding pain and rippling vision to a door laid on top of two sawhorses just beyond them, and an array of items laid neatly out on top – rags, kerosene, chain, knife, a box of matches. The same things on the list Francis had made. Francis' Winchester and his own .44 had been added to the collection.

Hastings began striding back and forth before him, smiling excitedly. He had a hammer in one hand, kept smacking the iron head into his palm. "Do you remember Luke Harper? Do you? Luke Harper, Crown. Do you remember?"

Luke Harper – El Paso… Crown studied Hastings. Yes, now he knew… this kid, a wild, scruffy whelp back then, already full of hate. And Luke Harper probably taught him everything he knew…

"Harper, that belly crawling bug?" Crown scoffed. "Sure, I remember – he a relative of yours?"

"He was my brother!" Hastings shouted, his voice far from the polite tone he'd arrived in town with. His lean body fairly trembled, his eyes were over bright. "My brother, Crown, and you killed him. You killed him slow – your shot wasn't clean. He spent two months dying. You don't even remember, do you?"

"I remember," Crown replied harshly. Past five years and it was still clear in his mind. "I remember that family he burned out, and that cowboy he shot in the back, and those two brothers that got their heads bashed in because of him. And the horse he raked to bloody shreds trying to get away."

Hastings stepped up, leaned in close, his face now ugly. "He told me about you, Crown. Told me what I could do to get you. And now I have you."

"All you've got is a gut full of hate and a mind full of poison," Crown told him flatly. "Luke Harper was a thieving killer and he got what he deserved."

"And you'll get yours, Crown," the other man replied smugly.

"I'll take you with me, I guarantee you," Crown vowed. "Harper, right? Little baby brother, Mark Harper. What'd your brother ever do for you? He filled you full of vengeance to make sure you finished his murdering work." He had to pause because the pain was rolling up through him, making his vision swim. Swallowing hard, he pushed on. "Mark Harper – heard tell you spent time in prison because of your hate. I'm sorry to hear it was because of me. I'm sorry my shot wasn't clean – it would've been better for you if it was."

"Gave me time to plan what I'd do to you," Mark Harper told him. He walked to his makeshift table, laid the hammer down. Crown let out a little breath; a swing of that iron head could brutally damage muscle and bone. "I'm going to kill you slow, Crown. Slow – like you killed my brother. You're going to suffer like he suffered."

"I figured." Crown yanked at his bindings but his arms were stuck fast. "Just tell me one thing first – why get Conroy involved?"

"Conroy," Harper laughed. "That dumb lout. I trailed him for days – waited for him, then used him… How'd you figure it out?"

"Give credit to the doc." Crown gave up trying to follow the kid's weaving gait – it only made him dizzier. "He told me you shot yourself."

"I did!" Harper whooped gleefully. "It was part of the plan – who better than a witness for a bank robbery? A perfect witness for the new Marshal in a new territory."

"That was my mistake," Crown ruefully stated. "I should've checked you out better."

"Fooled you, didn't I?" Harper laughed. "Luke told me you were thorough, but I watched you – I knew you were distracted." He leaned in. "She is pretty though, isn't she? All blonde and young – nearly lost my own attention a couple times…"

"Shut up," Crown growled straining against the bindings again. The rope dug into his wrists. Dammit, why didn't he haul Harper off when he first suspected? Dammit! "Just how do you think you'll get away?" he asked, giving himself a moment to cool his inner rage and utter a silent blessing that Dulcey was safe and that MacGregor would keep her so. "You going to murder everyone you've met in town? They'll know it was you. They'll come after you, boy. Not just a posse, but the best lawmen in this part of the country. They'll hunt you down, finish you off."

"That's just fine with me," Harper responded, running his fingers over the items on the table. "It's you I want. I don't care what happens after that."

Crown watched him, trying to beat back the pain drumming up into his temple from his damaged cheek. Harper was too excited, too enraged; he'd make mistakes. Not that there'd any way to dodge a bullet, staked out like this. Lead plowing into muscle would drive him down and he'd strangle himself easy. But a bullet would make the dying go too quick. No, the boy wasn't going to start with a gun, unless he only meant to ruin a limb or two. _Got four of them_, Crown reminded himself. _Ought to think of something before he wrecks them all…._

Harper picked something up from the table – a truncheon, Crown saw, studded with nails. The boy'd been doing more than simple carpentry and wooing Dulcey, then-

His breath caught as Harper whirled and rammed the blunt end of the club against his ribs. The pain was sharp, made his eyes tear. The noose tightened. Crown wheezed hard, straining for air, heels furiously seeking purchase. Harper rammed him on the other side, setting up a matching pain that had him sinking again. The younger man then flipped the thing like a circus man's baton, caught it, waved it menacingly. "This rips skin nicely," he said. "Shreds it…" And he whacked at Crown's left hand, digging in. Crown instinctively tried to close his fist and protect his palm, but his numbed fingers were too sluggish – he felt the rip of skin, saw blood flow…

"Be a man," he ground out, relieved to find his fingers, though pulpy, were still attached to his gouged palm. He shifted his hand, let the blood run toward the rope, slick it. "Untie me and use your fists."

Harper laughed. "Big law dog like you would like that, wouldn't you? No, Crown. Not your way – mine."

"All these plans are just feeding your cowardly guts," Crown retorted.

"I want to see you beg, Crown. I'll beat you and rip you until you do."

"You want me, fine," Crown replied. The blood was working under the rope; he wiggled his hand, trying to coat it, slide it free. He rolled his head toward his silent deputy crouched nearby. "Let him go – unless you're planning a double murder."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Harper shouted. "This is my plan – mine!"

"If you think I'm afraid of dying then you don't know me as well as you think," Crown told him. "I'll take whatever comes with this badge. So get to it, Harper. Pick up your toys over there and do it. But you'd better hurry before they come looking for me."

Harper slung the truncheon on the table with a clatter, selected a slender torch, the end already soaked in coal oil. He shook a match out of the box of them, struck it; the light flared and quickly settled into a steady burn. Beside Crown Francis made a soft choking sound and shifted – and moved.

Harper had tied the deputy to the cell door, and though somewhat bent with damage from the building blast, it still swung forward. Young Wilde sucked in an audible breath and dropped his rear to the splintered floor to stop himself. Crown could hardly blame him, what with Harper coming on with that lit torch.

Hastings waved the torch excitedly in front of Crown's nose – the heat from the flames swept across his skin, fanned his cheek. He watched as the kid drew his arm back, going for the outstretched left arm again, readied himself for defense, thin though it was—

Just as the flame dipped in Crown spat him full in the face. Harper howled and clawed at his eyes. The torch drooped toward Crown – too close, right toward his vitals. He sucked himself up straight, felt the rope slip under his heel. Savagely he wriggled his foot free and brought his leg up, used the toe of his boot to kick the flaming club from Harper's hand. Quickly he flipped the end up so that it caught the kid in the leg. Harper shrieked and danced back. Crown yanked on his bindings; his other leg loosened, but not enough.

Harper was coming back on; he'd doused the torch and now a blade winked in his grasp. Not a gun, Crown thought gratefully as he fiercely wiggled his lashed ankle. The rope held, but his foot worked up inside his boot. Keeping his eyes on Harper, he yanked his foot up – a little farther. He rammed the heel of his other boot down on top of the toe of this one and pulled hard; his foot popped free. Using his wrist ropes for balance, he swung both feet up just as Harper rushed him. He caught the younger man full in the groin. The knife clattered out of Harper's hand as he went flying backwards, landed beyond Crown's foot – but not far from Wilde.

"Francis!" Crown growled. Harper was rolling, all sucked up. "Get that blade!" There was some time, a few seconds. Just one hand free, that's all he needed…

Francis frantically thrust his weight forward. The cell door moved, and then scraped to a stop, stuck. He made a desperate sound, scrabbled, put his shoulder to the bars and shoved. Crown shot a look back to Harper – the kid was folded tight, pale and gasping. Crown swung his stare back to Francis. His young deputy had shifted himself around, rump in the air, cheek pressed tight against a bar, shoulders working, fingers straining as he pushed against the iron bars to reach the fallen knife.

"Now!" Crown thundered as the other man's thumb grazed the hilt. "Cut me free!"

Francis scooped up the knife and got to his feet, hopped forward, bringing the door with him. Quickly he put the blade to the rope at Crown's wrist and began to saw from the bottom up, the best he could do with his own bound hands and the reach he could make. The first fibers split – Crown wiggled his hand. "Keep going!" But his eyes were on Harper again, now dragging himself to his knees, trying to crawl to his array of weapons. The gun – all the kid would need was that gun—

Francis made a sound of muffled alarm just as the pain bit – going at it this way he'd sliced into skin. "Keep going!" Crown commanded, gritting his teeth. He flexed, let the blood run, worked it against the shredding rope, felt the remaining hemp snap.

He grabbed the knife from Francis with still numb fingers, cursed as he almost lost it, grasped as tight as he could manage and shoved the blade under the rope lashing his other wrist. The blade was sharp enough, but his deadened fingers made him clumsy. He heard Francis utter a garbled warning, put an eye over and saw Harper coming on unsteadily, gun in one hand, a length of chain in another. Metal or lead would reach him in seconds—

The hemp snapped hard; blood spattered from his already damaged fingers. Fiercely Crown clawed at the rope around his neck, loosened the noose, and forced it up over his sweaty head – free! He adjusted his grip on the knife hilt with tingling fingers, went to a crouch and rammed himself forward. Harper adjusted his aim downward – there was a shot – the length of chain smacked him on the back of a shoulder just as they connected.

The younger man was all wiry strength, but Crown had more, plus height and weight – and experience. He tackled Harper and they went down, Crown slashing with his bleeding right hand and grappling for the gun with his mangled left one. They rolled, clubbing and kicking, straining to gain advantage. Harper came in with the length of chain – Crown plunged the knife into muscle; the other man cried out. Crown twisted the blade, tore the chain from the other man's shaking fingers, flung it —

Heard the hammer of the Colt click into place.

Somehow the kid got his finger onto the trigger.

Crown redoubled his strength, shoved himself on top of the younger man, let go of the knife to get both hands around the gun, trapping the flexing fingers, his own blood slicking the metal barrel. Harper's might was maniac in return; he turned, angling the gun toward Crown's chest, knowing he could hit bodily mass and wreak fatal damage at close range…

Crown got his knee up between Harper's legs but the kid felt it coming and worked back; hanging on, Crown drove an elbow into the slender midriff. Harper grunted but kept his grip, edged himself back against the wall. His fingers tore at Crown's shirt collar, his hair, reached for the damaged cheek, grasping, pinching, ripping. Crown ducked, thrust himself forward, slammed Harper into the wall, whacked the gun hand against brick – again and again, heard the Colt clatter to the floor, went for it.

Harper got there first and kicked it away, came back with the chain, rained it down. It struck Crown hard on one ear; he slipped, reached blindly for the discarded knife – it had to be here, it had to be – even as his other hand dug into two links of chain and yanked – Harper's fist connected with his chin, sent him sprawling back with a headful of brilliant, streaking pain. It smothered him even as he worked to pull himself over, drop palms and knees to the floor to protect his core. He heard Harper's approaching gasps, smelled his sweat; finally saw the slight form looming, and thrust himself up on shaking arms to greet it.

"You're dead, Crown," Harper rasped, a weird light glinting in his eyes. "Dead-"

The shot was loud – the bullet whistled past him, watched with watery vision as Harper stiffened and shook, eyes widening with surprise, mouth working to utter something. He hung there on his toes in a slash of afternoon light, then twisted and slumped down. There came the unmistakable _slap!_ of flesh against the floor.

Crown heaved himself back and looked up – Francis crouched awkwardly, the gag down under his chin, the gun clutched in both hands. His face had paled; his blue eyes were round with the realization of what he'd done. Then his gaze went to Crown, locked on tight. "Marshal…"

"It's all right," Crown raggedly called back. Francis eased a little but his grip on the Colt was still white.

The knife was sitting in a smear of pooling blood from Harper's stabbed arm. Crown found his knees, crawled over and grabbed it, then shoved Harper face up. The body flopped over. The face stared unseeing, blood welling from a hole made in the shirt. Crown shook his head – a perfect shot, made by a kid who was still off target more than he was on. Saying a silent prayer to the angel protectors of U. S. Marshals, Crown slowly got to his feet.

"Let me take that," he said to Francis, closing firm fingers over the Colt.

Francis gulped and let go. "He jumped me…He must've heard me coming…Never killed anyone before," he mumbled, watching as Crown cut first his hands then his feet free.

"A man always has a choice," Crown told him, tossing the both the knife and the rope aside, then taking an arm to help him straighten. He tapped the badge pinned to the other man's chest. "When you wear this you do your job, no matter which decision he makes."

The younger man nodded; some of the first shock was leaving his gaze. "Guess I never thought of it that way."

Jim gave him a heartfelt clap on the back. "Takes time. Thanks – I owe you." He nodded to the cooling figure on the floor. "He was out for a kill. You saved my life."

"He trailed you all the way to Cimarron for revenge?"

Crown nodded. "Looks that way."

Francis looked over to the inert form, then back to Crown. "It'd make a great story…" he began, feebly trying for a smile.

Another Doc Crown tale…with a righteous photo to accompany the whole sordid story. But Crown withheld his reprimand and instead lifted his own bleeding hand. "Would you mind if I got this tended before you start asking me a lot of questions?"

But his heart was already growing heavy with the duty of having to explain what'd happened to the young lady waiting over at the Wayfarer's Inn.


	14. Chapter 14

XIV.

MacGregor was standing, Winchester in hand, peering out Crown's office door.

"Anything?" Dulcey called anxiously from the connecting entrance.

"No." The frustration was plain in Mac's voice. "Two hours gone – and nothing…" He didn't even turn around.

Two hours gone. Something was wrong – Dulcey felt it inside her. Crown should've been back by now; Francis, too. And Matthew Hastings had everything to do with it. Her heart wrenched. She knew Crown did not care for Matthew …

She'd recounted, over and over, her last minutes with Matthew, then her meeting with Crown and Francis. How Matthew's inattention had seemed so – disturbing. And how the Marshal's face had been set with worry – she knew easily recognized that look now. She'd seen it in Crown's glittering gaze. And it was more than his reticence over her friendship with Matthew. This seemed…personal. Between him and Matthew, that is.

Dulcey felt a chill ripple through her. She rubbed her arms to warm them – something was so wrong here, and it frightened her. Death up to now had been for the old and the sick. It could be cruel in its swiftness, or in its hovering stance. But not violent like out here. Men took up against each other here with a viciousness that she hadn't seen in Providence – or hadn't realized existed. Here men wore their intentions on their hips, and the need to kill for survival was always present, and the desire to kill waited close behind. The Wild West, they called it. But it was more than that. It was raw and hard, poured into the souls of those living out here so that it became part of their being.

Men accosting others, men seeking to kill others…and Marshal James Crown standing in the middle of it all.

"Matthew, what have you done?" she asked softly to the eerie silence.

She liked Matthew Hastings. He was a nice man, a gentleman. A friend. He'd asked no more than her attention. What could be so wrong with that? But there did seem to be something wrong with it – at least where the Marshal was concerned. No, she amended to herself. Not with her and Matthew. Crown would surely tell her if he thought Matthew could harm her – the Marshal was not one to hold himself back over such an opinion, as she well knew. Crown, with his criticisms, his harsh eye, his by-the badge business. This was different. This was about who Matthew was, or had been, or what he'd done. And where Crown was concerned, it had to be an issue with the law.

That was it then – Matthew had done something. The shiver went back through her – he'd done something terrible. And the Marshal was trying to stop him.

In the days since the alley attack she'd felt freshly comforted by Crown's watchful eye. Francis and MacGregor were also more attentive, but Crown had made his concern obvious in the way he'd asked about her, the gentle look in his gaze as they exchanged their daily conversations. He'd politely backed off from her and Matthew, hadn't said anything about catching them in the kitchen. Left her in relative peace, only she found she didn't really want that from him. From their first night together at the Inn Crown had been nothing but honest with her. She knew he still held a ticket for her to the eastbound train, knew he wouldn't blame her if she gave it all up and returned to Providence. He'd been quick to voice his displeasure at her seemingly simpleminded idea of staying, warning her in that gruff manner of his. But now he seemed to be holding back, careful not to overstep his authority. Ever since that night when he'd barged into the kitchen…

And then there'd been that day at the cemetery, when he'd been easy-minded and conversational, despite the badge pinned on him. That day, that night in the alley – that moment in the kitchen – he'd hadn't been a Marshal, but a man, with a man's feelings…

That incident in the alley – Dulcey couldn't stop her shudder at the memory of it, and the blacker one before that. She'd seen that knowing look in Crown's eyes, as if he could see through to her soul and the secret she kept hidden there, the one she'd never spoken of, not even to her mother. Crown saw her shame and knew, gentled himself to her because of it. He'd been respectful enough not to ask her about it, just took the knowledge of it into to him and held it secure. She knew he'd listen if she chose to tell him, would not look at her differently because of it. That meant the most of all. Maybe she'd confide in him one day. And it would be good to relieve herself of her harbored burden -

They both heard the shot – she jumped and Mac started, then sprinted past her to the front doors, the dining room long quiet from the noon meal.

"What is it?" Febrizio asked, lifting his gaze from the paper he was reading at the bar.

"Where did it come from?" Dulcey demanded, rocking to a stop beside Mac.

"I'm not sure," MacGregor tersely replied. His grip on the Winchester had gone white. They stared together but there was nothing. Maybe it hadn't been a shot, Dulcey thought, just something else, down by the depot, perhaps, or someone building something, dropping lumber or materials, perhaps Matthew…

Then the next shot came, and Mac jumped from foot to foot as he peered out trying to see something, anything A few people started to gather across the street, pointing and talking, walking toward the old sheriff's office. This time Febrizio came out from the behind the bar and joined them.

"MacGregor," Dulcey began around her heart that had worked up into her throat.

"To the kitchen, lass," he told her. "Or better yet, to your room and lock the door."

"Oh but I can't…" she protested. She could not go, not when it was all tied together, the Marshal and Francis – and Matthew…

"You must – for your safety. I promised Jim."

"But, but…" There was movement, an increased volume of voices from the street. Dulcey looked out. "There he is!" she cried, recognizing the figure in black and white, the glittering hat band, the badge.

"Stay here!" MacGregor pulled her back. "Jim!" he called and barreled through the batwing doors.

It was Crown – and Francis. Both were engulfed by a small knot of people. She heard the Marshal's authoritative voice but could not make out the instructions he was giving. Two men hurried inside the damaged building with MacGregor, while two more headed off down the street. The rest crowded around the boarded up windows, chattering excitedly to each other, then back at Crown.

Matthew was not among them – something landed hard in Dulcey's stomach. No Matthew…he'd been working in that building. And those shots…Matthew and Crown…

The Marshal and Francis detached themselves from the group, and slowly made their way across the street to the Inn. "What happened?" Dulcey asked in a rush as they stepped up onto the walk. "Is everything – oh no!" A heavy smear of sticky blood from a terrible gash covered one cheek. "You're hurt!" she cried.

"It's all right," Crown advised in greeting, working Francis through the batwings. "Febrizio, Francis needs a little fortifying, all right?" He handed the pale deputy over to the bartender and turned to her. "Miss Dulcey…"

He swayed. There was more blood on him; it was running down onto his hands, soaked both cuffs. "Into the kitchen!" Dulcey commanded, pointing with a shaking finger. "Before you bleed over everything!"

They parted, Febrizio herding Francis to nearby chair, Dulcey clutching Crown's near elbow and hustling him into the kitchen.

"Sit down!" she exclaimed as he stumbled against her. He grunted, reaching for his side as he lowered himself into a seat. "What happened?" she asked, reaching for water and towels. "We heard shots…"

But he didn't answer, only pulled the hat off his sweaty head and sighed. Then he blocked her hand, took the wadded wet towel she was about to press against his cheek and did it himself. He was beaten and disheveled, his white shirt stained and torn, his dark hair awry. Both pant legs were coated with dirt, one boot was badly scuffed. There were bruises under the sweat and the blood – and his hand…!

"You've been fighting," she declared.

"Yes," he replied.

"Let me see." Dulcey took his free hand – the wrist was chafed and sliced. Bleeding. The fingers of the hand holding the towel, and the palm connecting them, were worse; here the skin was ripped jaggedly away and bleeding afresh. It dripped darkly red, down his shirtsleeve. Her hands shook as she cleaned the cut in the one she held. "Everything's bleeding."

"Just opened up some hide," he told her in that maddening drawl of his, but she sensed a strain in his tone. "I've caught worse on a stormy night riding herd."

"It's still bleeding." She ripped at the towel to make bandages, wound it around and around. And Matthew – Matthew was…

"It'll stop. Enough wrapping!" Crown exclaimed, pulling away. "Even the doc wouldn't use that much bandage."

She finished tying the ends, apologized when she got it too tight and he winced. Then she gently pulled the cloth away from his cheek. A brilliant mess of split and gouged skin over a blooming red and purple bruise gaped at her. Something came out past her lips that made him stare up in surprise up at her, kept him staring as she rinsed out the towel and made careful ministrations.

"Bad?" he finally asked her, a glint of lazy amusement in his tired eyes.

"It looks terrible," she declared truthfully. No wonder he was unsteady – the blow had surely rattled him.

"It'll heal. Miss Dulcey…" He touched her arm, drew her hand away; his grasp was warm, gentle. "Sit down. Please." He gave a short sigh and she sensed his reluctance to speak. And she knew _she knew..._ "I've got something to tell-"

"You found Matthew," she blurted and the tears quickly rose in her eyes. She sat, her hands reaching for his bleeding one. She could not be still; she had to move, if only to repel what she knew was true so that she didn't have to face it. No, it couldn't be…

"I found him," Crown said quietly over her movements, his gaze deep on her.

"He's dead, isn't he?" She didn't want his answer. Some part of her kept denying it. Hearing it from his lips would make it true. But she knew it was true. She knew. _Why?_ she asked herself. _Why? Why? _echoed inside her.

"Yes," Crown nodded. "He's dead." His shoulders slumped a little.

A sob unexpectedly choked her from the sad and awful truth. Dead – Matthew was dead. She knew Crown enough to realize that he did not go after anyone without reason, would not shoot unless he had no choice. The man sitting before her – beaten, bleeding remorseful – bore the weight of his badge so heavily.

"What did he do?" she demanded, because she had to know that, too, awful as she feared it to be. She submerged his ragged hand into the bowl, began to carefully cleanse it

Crown pulled her hand away, did it for himself. "He tried for some vengeance," he answered, his tone requesting her understanding. "Because I killed his outlaw brother, back in El Paso. I'm sorry," he added softly.

_Dead…vengeance…_the words spun round and round inside her head. Dulcey tried to block them out but they persisted, pressed against the man she thought she knew, kind and friendly. The man who almost kissed her in this kitchen. Matthew – dead, he'd done all this to the Marshal. "Did – did you…?" she tried around a tongue gone dry inside her mouth.

He shook his head. "Francis got to the gun first. Saved my life."

"He wanted to kill you," she realized, her own words chilling her.

"Yes."

Dulcey looked at his beaten, sweaty face, the terrible, bloodied gash and the heaviness darkening his gaze. How he must have fought for his life. And Francis had shot…Sweet Francis, forced to kill to save Crown's life. "He – he didn't seem…" She took up some bandaging and padded his palm, began to wrapping his gouged fingers, lashing them together. The bleeding was heavy, quickly soaked the cloth. Matthew – such a nice man…Hot feeling threaded quickly through her – he was a vengeful killer…it was sickening, that he could be so – twisted…

"It was an act, to trick me – and you. His real name was Mark Harper." Crown shook his head slightly. "He had a belly full of hate."

"He used me…" Dulcey returned flatly. Used her to get to Crown. It made her feel like a betrayer.

"Maybe a little," Crown nodded.

Dulcey looked away from him, guilt thickening inside her. She should have known, she shouldn't have been so friendly, so trusting…

He touched her sleeve again. "He liked you."

"No, he…no." No, the Marshal was only saying that to assuage her feelings. Matthew hadn't been really interested in her – at all. The friendship wasn't one. She hadn't mattered to him. He was no different than those two attackers. There were no men really interested in her – she was dull, unseen, just like Crown had told her that first night she'd arrived. They wanted only one thing but took no notice otherwise.

"He liked you, Miss Dulcey."

She looked up at him, frowning. "How do you know?"

He nodded at her and a little flame of warmth worked into his gaze. "I know."

Dulcey looked away, her cheeks quickly growing warm. She concentrated on tying the last ends of the bandages around his fingers, saw that the blood was already leaking through, reached to fold back his cuffs. He probably should have the doctor tend to it – maybe he needed stitches, though there didn't look like there was enough skin to put together. It would probably have to scab over—

A mark on his arm caught her attention. Dulcey peered. "What's this?" Her finger carefully traced a thin but jagged white line just south of his inner elbow.

He looked at it, lifted one shoulder to shrug. "Just a scar."

"From what?" she asked.

"Just some ol' Comanche arrow…"

"An arrow!" Dulcey exclaimed. For goodness sakes! An arrow – from an Indian! Just when had he…?

"It was a long time ago," Crown told her.

She peered at it again. Healed, but not all that well. "Did it hurt?"

"This one wasn't so bad."

"There are others?"

He glanced away. "A few."

And no doubt a complete understatement. He was working too hard at being evasive, had flushed just a little under the new scrutiny. He didn't like probing questions, she realized, and more than likely wasn't all that comfortable having them asked by a female. An air of vulnerability swirled about him; she felt a whisper of memories come over him, hard things that had happened to him. Things he'd long ago accepted, molded him into the man he was before her, strong in character. It made her realize just how much he did understand her own secret held inside of her.

"I've never met anyone like you," Dulcey stated. "You've been pierced by arrows, shot by bullets, beaten, bruised…how do you do this job?"

"Same as any others," he replied, but she detected a trace of honest pride in his voice. "It's good if you can dodge some of those arrows and bullets and fists." He pulled out of her grasp and stood. "Thank you, Miss Dulcey." He grabbed his hat, clamped it back on his head, made for the doors.

She rose. He'd have things to do – check on Francis and Mac, probably make a trip to see Mr. Blynn the undertaker – someone would have to order up a coffin…Matthew, dead – it was so senseless. And there was surely some kind of paperwork to do. But he was still a little unsteady on his feet – that blow to the cheek had been hard, so hard.

"You're sure you'll be all right?" she called after him.

"I'm sure." He indicated the bandaging. "Thank you."

"You might want to see Doctor Kihlgren," she suggested. "If it keeps bleeding…"

"I'll keep an eye on it," he told her, still moving.

He was withdrawing, putting his feelings back under the badge he wore. Protecting himself – perhaps also his heart. She understood it, respected him for it, and wanted him to know…

You don't have to call me 'miss,'" she suddenly called after him.

That stopped him. He slowly turned back to her. His glittering gaze fastened onto her, heavy brows raised, waiting for more.

"Dulcey will do," she continued in a softer voice, unable to hold that stare. She might be his landlady, but that didn't mean they had to be so formal with each other, not after all this – with Matthew and all this blood, and the other night when he'd rescued her. And that day at the cemetery. There had to be a place somewhere in between for them…friends…

He nodded. "Jim," he offered in return, if a little gruffly.

She smiled. "All right."

His hands went to his hips in that manner she was coming to know so well. "Well now…Dulcey," he said, as if tasting her name on his lips for the first time, drawing it out in that distinctive tone of his. "Seems I missed some lunch. Think you could put something together for me – and Francis?"

She quickly stood. "Yes, of course – Jim. Right away."

He nodded. "I'll be back. Make it hot and plentiful."

"I will," she assured him, then watched as he swung back through the dining room, hail Francis, keep going. Always moving, always busy, checking and observing, meeting and greeting, directing, yes, even ordering. It was the badge, Dulcey decided. So much of him was in that badge pinned to his chest. He was like a watchman of old, she thought. The watchman of this town, and all the other towns, and the Strip – even the Outlet. Keeping the peace, punishing the guilty, making this place secure to all.

A huge job, too big for just any man. But Jim Crown wasn't just any man, she realized.

He was the only man for this job.


	15. Chapter 15

XV.

A timid tapping came at his door.

"Come," Crown commanded, knowing exactly who it was and rushing to finish the sentence on the report he was working on, one of a stack already days late. There'd been no shortage of situations in the past week, from farmer squabbles to excited ranch hands to merchant complaints, not to mention the increasing reluctance of the Army to patrol the Outlet. Next week was reserved for talks – a lot of them – with Major Covington, Captain Bragg and the Army District Office; even Washington was going to hear from United States Marshal Jim Crown of Cimarron on this issue.

The door opened slowly, and Dulcey's blonde head came into his side vision.

"What is it?" he asked, still writing, holding back his chafe at the interruption. He'd spent a rare quiet afternoon working on these reports so that he could put them all into the eastbound mail pouch. He'd told MacGregor, Francis and Dulcey that short of the Wayfarer's burning down around them that he wasn't to be disturbed. Not that he fully expected to be obeyed – Cimarron was not short on excitement at any given hour of the day. But the afternoon had passed uneventfully, at least to his knowledge.

"Your supper is ready," Dulcey said to him, pushing the door wider. "If – if you're done…"

He peered out to the clock high on the far wall of the dining room, and the hands on the face marching toward six o'clock. "Looks like it's long past ready," he commented smartly.

Dulcey's face crumpled into apology. "I didn't want to bother you – your door was closed…"

His own words bit back into him – when had he told her that, a week ago? Two? "Maybe you can let me know when supper first hits the table," he suggested with a little smile. "That'd be worth the interruption."

"All right," she nodded.

He re-read his last sentence, added a few more words and then put his pencil down. She was still standing there, watching him. Which meant that something was going on inside that female mind of hers – which meant it probably involved him. "Something you need, Dulcey?"

"Well, Jim…" It still came out awkwardly over her tongue, though he liked it better than her calling him Marshal – or Mister Crown, which had been her new response when he irritated her.

Her hesitation made him turn the chair toward her. She brushed back a strand of hair, and he noticed the thin gold ring circling her little finger. It was the only jewelry he'd seen her wear. She'd look pretty with her hair all up and some shiny, dangling earrings in her ears, maybe a locket at her throat…and something fancier to wear than serviceable cotton. Then he quashed those thoughts – he didn't want to think of her as one of Pony Jane's girls. Not Dulcey. There was more substance to her than that. She should be something better than a servant. There were plenty of rancher's sons about; maybe she would catch an eye of one of them, as Mac had suggested. But that thought gave him a little jab.

"I'd like to go to the cemetery tomorrow," Dulcey began. "Mr. Gibson said the marker was ready. I – might you…? I asked Francis but he is busy and MacGregor…"

He stood and stepped over to her, glad that she'd remembered. "I'd be happy to take you." He lifted a finger to her cheek and the scrape fading there. It still put a knot in his gut whenever he saw it. "Hurt?" he asked, lightly touching it

She shook her head and glanced at his own scabbed bruise. "No, not really. Yours?"

"No," he returned. Except when he tried to shave. Or roll over in his bed.

She was still thinking on something – he knew it by the way she was biting her lip, and how her hand kept working at some strands of blonde hair. He waited quietly, gave her time to get it out. "I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "For not heeding your warnings to me." She quickly sat in the fat leather chair, looked lost in it. "I – I –it won't happen again. I'll be careful – I promise…"

_And I'll be more watchful, _he silently decided. She was young, and though earnest, she'd make mistakes. And he'd get upset with her – it seemed that their emerging friendship was going to have an element of argument to it. Well, that was all right. If it meant hurting her feelings to keep her safe, then so be it. He'd rather spare her the physical harm. And with her sunny nature he hoped he would be able to quickly insert himself back into her good graces when that did happen.

"You need to learn how to shoot a gun," he said to her now.

"Oh, no," Dulcey protested, straightening. "I really couldn't…"

"Yes."

"No, Jim," she shook her head, blue eyes full of dismay. "I – no…"

"Dulcey, you have to be able to protect yourself. Especially if you're going to head off alone."

"I won't. I'll stay here." She rose and edged toward the door.

Crown reached for her hand, settled his gaze onto her. "I can't always be here…"

"I know."

"You need to be able to protect yourself." Flowers and lace, he kept thinking. _She is really all that – and goodness the likes of which I haven't seen…_

She was shaking her head again. "I – I – no…"

"Shooting lessons," he told her.

"Ho, now, Marshal." Dulcey fumbled for the door latch. "That's just not necessary."

"It is," he corrected.

Her arms went akimbo, and irritation pinked up her cheeks. "How can you stand there and make decisions for me?"

_Because you're too young, too trusting, too innocent – too pretty…_

_Because I want to help…_

Crown gestured. "You've got an investment to protect," he pointed out. "If ever there's a fracas you could use some persuasion to stop it." _And if anyone ever got into your room… _He inclined his head toward the dining room. "Got a shotgun under the bar now. You should know how to use it."

She stood still, emotion making her stiff. But then she bent a little. "I'll consider it. "

He smiled broadly, glad that the conversation hadn't ended in an argument – at least this time. "Good. Oh, here." He reached back, scooped up the flower vase perched on his desk – again – and handed it over to her. She took it, a little piqued, but then something alit in her gaze and she gave him a little uppity smile. Crown held in his sigh. There was no lock to his connecting door – yet. He knew she'd be in here to sweep his floor and return that vase – she didn't seem too deterred by closed doors. But he let it go for now.

He walked with her back out to the empty dining room, scanned the area as always. The bar was filling up but the drinkers were all being friendly. Febrizio smiled and nodded at him. Francis hurried past, camera leveled on one shoulder.

"Where's the fire?" Crown called to him.

"Skipper Jones challenged Octavius Dinapoli to a bicycle race around the town," Francis said over his shoulder. "It's the first time the old captain's ever ridden on two wheels!" he rushed in a finish.

Crown shook his head. "Probably the last time, too," he said. "Be back for first watch!"

"I will!" Francis promised and disappeared.

"Evening, Marshal."

"Marshal…"

"Good evening, Marshal."

Crown nodded, slapped few backs as he passed by on his way to the front doors. He stepped out onto the board walk and surveyed the street in the incoming twilight, appreciated the quiet view. The street had been freshly raked clean and the traffic was thinning. Inviting yellow light glowed from the windows of the bars and gaming halls up and down the roadway, and a light breeze carried the sounds of music and happy chatter. The fire barrels were full, the water within shimmering with the last ebbing sunlight. Crown tilted his head up to the sky softening from blue to purple, noted a few early stars. The heat of the day was ebbing, the air was cooling. He rubbed at the stubble lining his jaw, and then dug for a cigar. Be a nice night for a bath, he thought, lighting up. Though he'd be sure to put a chair under the knob this time. A man deserved no less than complete privacy when stepping out of his drawers and into a tub.

He heard a step behind him and cast a quick glance back. "Almost serene," came MacGregor's distinct burr. He handed Crown a glass of whiskey. "From my own private batch. Tell me what you think – and be completely honest."

Crown nodded his thanks; they clinked and drank. Crown savored the taste that ran across his tongue, the burning glow as it traveled down his throat to belly, and let out a sigh of satisfaction that made the Scotsman laugh heartily.

"There's talk of putting on a dance social," Mac said. "To raise funds for the library."

Crown took another sip. "That'd be fine."

"Are you a dancing man, Jim Crown?"

"I can be persuaded – upon occasion," he replied with a grin.

"Aye, especially is a pretty young lass does the persuading, I'll wager."

Crown smiled into his glass. "That does help."

From down the street there came a collective whoop. Crown peered through the dusk to a crowd forming around the two bicycle riders. Dinapoli was an expert rider and twenty years younger than the former sea captain. Skipper Jones had to have been a quart shy of sober to make that bet. Though if he fell off the monstrous two-wheeled contraption, which was almost a solid bet, he probably wouldn't even hurt himself.

Crown let his gaze drift back. Cimarron was his town – and the land beyond. It was wild and raw, bloody and dirty – and hopeful. A new beginning. It wasn't going to be easy trying to tame it. One man could only do so much. He shifted, felt the weight borne by the badge pinned to his vest. It was a burden unlike any others, but one that he accepted. He wore it for the future of towns like Cimarron, for the people within, for the natives and the foreigners, too. All of them. He did not regret putting it on and taking up on the right side of the law. It wasn't ever going to provide wealth, or even an abundance of physical comforts, but it was long on personal satisfaction.

Sometimes it gave him friends, like a photo-hungry reporter, and a garrulous Scotsman…

And a pretty young landlady with an affinity for lace and flowers. Right now, that was all he needed.

Oh, and maybe that bath, too… 

END


End file.
